POSSESSIONS

There is nothing I can truly call my own—
even my voice once belonged
to the harpsichord; my voice
was the fractured music of angels
moving in their crystal spheres, the touch
of God like a light left burning
all night long in the infirmary
keeping vigil over the sick. Once my eyes
were a view of meadows sunk
in swamps, reclaimed by the holy,
the forthright, the lilies of the valley….
Let us revisit that meadow, gazed upon
by ladies in white dresses, the stems
of chilled wineglasses melding to their fingertips
while gentleman stand behind, not seeing
the truth for the curls of their mistress’ hair….
The painter, in his studio, knows this.
He has seen them move back and forth for years
through the obscure galleries of his mind,
commenting on this or that object, opening
Wunderkabinetts and starting open-mouthed
at things they couldn’t quite identify but which
looked vaguely human,
their reflections in a darkened mirror.