.
Pages Come and Go
.
Joyfully broke, I enter
The Frick, frayed Rimbaud
in hand. I leave a man I wouldn’t
call a lover for my mannerist
Sunday appointment. I can’t
resist Bronzino’s portrait,
Ludovico Capponi.
.
That small head, hooded lids,
witchy green eyes asymmetric.
The right eye strays
with youth’s erotic chill,
worthy of Rimbaud.
.
The boyish mouth sulks,
bored as September
Vogue’s cover model.
Maybe he’s lost favor
with the Florentine court.
.
Pages come and go.
His sort of beauty gets
roughed up in women’s laps.
That risqué codpiece, small defense
against commonplace loss.
.
My brother wore my Victorian
ruby, with crushed red velvet.
If he saw Bronzino’s work,
he’d love the violence of the green,
the sheen of brocades, stark
contrast of black and white.
As for boredom, he’d ignore it.
.
I wish Bronzino could have painted
my brother, but I’m glad he caught
Ludovico just before life started
to make sense or wear him down.
.
He was perfect as falling rain.
.
Carla Sarett’s recent work appears in San Pedro River Review, Words and Whispers, The Virginia Normal and elsewhere. Her essays have been nominated for the Pushcart and Best American Essays. Her novella, The Looking Glass, will be published in October (Propertius Press), and A Closet Feminist, a full-length novel, will be published in 2022 (Unsolicited Press.) Carla lives in San Francisco.
.
North of Oxford 