The Ghosts of Georgia O’Keeffe and Sigmund Freud Meet in New Mexico

by krstaten

NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 15–Prompt Here

I didn’t come here to talk about painting.
Take a seat. Take a look at the sprawling open–
the rolls of the desert, the way the sky sings
the mountains home to it.

And yes, the flowers too,
the way they thank the rain
in every vibrant language,
but it’s so much more than the flowers.

Haven’t you, too, ever longed for a landscape
and all its promise? Treasures
offered up from the sand like the ocean
tide washing sea shells up–bones
worn thin and smooth and white by the finest grain–

No, I didn’t come here to talk about painting,
though I’d paint if I could.
I’d capture how the faraway horizon steals your words.
If the landscape must be a body,
let it be yours–not in the sense of desire,
but in the sense of what this kind of ocean
will one day make of your bones.
Those lines in your face that boast thoughtful,
only rivets in the sand.

And yes, the flowers too–
if there are flowers, they are your fingerprints,
worlds waiting to be offered to another,
but it’s so much more than flowers.

I didn’t come here to talk about painting.