|
|
From: "Love T.K.O."
Peter, by Hockney
For half an hour she stood before the painting,
fitting her husband into the outline of the subject.
His back as straight as the canvas, his feet curled
beneath him in the way she'd stopped for the sake
of the armchair. This is not what she'd wanted
to see, or feel, expecting the thrill
she'd supposed great art ignited in the soul,
something heavenly and spiritual to replace
the cold house in which she always found herself
alone.
Instead she found this:
a picture of someone like her husband nestling a book
in his lap as he let his eyesight drift
to the window, the daylight touching the muscle
of his lips, his hair swept to the side, often
by her own hands. These were the days before
double-glazing blurred the outside world, before
television switched his vision onto
room-corner comedies, sport shows, the comfort
of well-solved murders. His jaw-skin used to curve
around the bone like well-smoothed clay, in those days,
as it still did, if she thought, and the crook
of his knee, the thick of his neck were lines
and angles to feel secure with. Such moments
she'd hold for as long as time allowed,
till he scribbled on the stillness and returned
to common life with a single movement.
Then he'd offer to make coffee, prompting the kettle
to whistle with a tune of his own,
shouting through from the kitchen with thoughts
of an outing, or maybe just the offer
of biscuits.
|
|