Primo, Secundo

oil painting: l. da. vinci / digital image: r. murre

Primo, Secundo

by Margot Peters

So long we've played duets,

hips spreading on piano bench,

now merging, you Humpty

me Dumpty, making music together.

You play above middle C

hands darting like finches

over the green field of my bass.

I drive the bus below, striving to set

the tempo.

We clap earmuffs on Mozart's bust

to spare him the bad notes.

Schubert throbs on your vintage Steinway,

Ravel falters on my Yamaha grand.

You said to me yesterday: "I've always

wanted to play secundo."

Conductor lowers his baton

Orchestra scrapes back its chairs.

Truly, have we been making music

for thirty-five years, you wanting secundo?

Do I know you, friend?

~ first published in Free Verse

MONA LISA IMAGINES

artist: leonardo da vinci - mona leo juxtaposer: david r. tribble (?)

MONA LISA IMAGINES

by Karla Huston     

           

The virgins on the rocks were never

unhappy, yet you painted them twice. 

At least the twelve apostles could

gnaw meat off bones while they lingered

or leaned into a bit of gossip

or fingered silver coins.  Today

you want my hands folded just this way. 

Chiaroscuro, you call it,

a new way of seeing, but oh,

I am tired, wait like an unanswered

prayer or an angel condemned

to kneel forever, while you study

the slant of light and adjust shadows

with a thumb.  Today it’s your hair

that has me worried, flying out from

your head, your beard a silver nest

for insects and stray bits of food. 

And Leonardo, you have such nasty

habits: belching after every meal,

farting when you bend for a rag,

or scratching your balls and peeing

from the balcony into the lilies

below.  Now you could use a bath

and those nails clipped, but once

you might have been handsome. 

Maybe then you’d have painted me

younger, crowned with roses, my fingers

full of gold rings.  Why not ask me

about the scar on my arm or my crooked

little finger?  Will anyone remember

the smoky haze around my face,

the subtle shift of light and dark,

see how much it hurt to smile? 

~ first published in  Kalliope