04-16-2017, 04:55 PM
Georgia O’Keeffe 1918
From first solo exhibition in New York to
Spanish influenza, near death, in weeks.
A vortex. I felt my body drain away like
water down a sink behind me. Ahead
a curving corridor, a light, brighter
and warmer as I neared.
Music. A choir?
Is that my brother welcoming me?
Tugged back, grey, aching,
I sank, the light faded.
New York is built of light and shade,
ephemeral, two dimensional, without
empty spaces. No quiet. No peace.
Today I began an affair with Stieglitz.
Now bells ring out, sirens blare.
Not for us. The war has ended
over there.
From first solo exhibition in New York to
Spanish influenza, near death, in weeks.
A vortex. I felt my body drain away like
water down a sink behind me. Ahead
a curving corridor, a light, brighter
and warmer as I neared.
Music. A choir?
Is that my brother welcoming me?
Tugged back, grey, aching,
I sank, the light faded.
New York is built of light and shade,
ephemeral, two dimensional, without
empty spaces. No quiet. No peace.
Today I began an affair with Stieglitz.
Now bells ring out, sirens blare.
Not for us. The war has ended
over there.