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Wanting Only Impressionism
It's a kind of blindness
hanging familiar art work
in all the safe places,
Decorating my living room
in mauve so that even the
furniture imbues an
impressionistic air. Only
the Boston Ferns must
remain plastic because I
cannot be counted on to
water them. I call the
overstuffed chair by the
fireplace: "The F. Scott
Fitzgerald Memorial Chair."
Only it is Zelda who sits
there reminding me that
manic depression means
you would sell your baby
in a shopping mall for a
package of cigarettes. It is
the orderliness of my
surroundings and the
rainbows from stained
glass that tie me to
Manet, Renoir, Matisse,
send me longing for the
water lilies of Monet.
Norman Rockwell can hang
only in the kitchen. There,
one must be practical. Only
Hogarth's print, "The Enraged
Musician," betrays my inner
turmoil. It was 'you' states
the gift giver. It hangs like an
undusted mirror beside an
angry poem framed so that,
published, I can look at my
name each morning. It's a kind
of blindness longing for peaceful-
ness in the art that surrounds us.
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