(considering Arkady Plastov's
painting, "Midday," 1961, Russian
Museum, St. Petersburg)
This view will never tell me
what's between the woman and man--
love? Siblings? Friends? It makes me
feel heat lean into their backs
as they lean over that dark wood trough.
Only summer light infuses weeds and
grass this way, gives them a furnace
glow. A swooning heat of dreams.
She'd love to bathe, pats her head with
water with her right hand, cups some
in her left. He wants to drink. In
weeds the motorcycle's lean and red,
a bulbous lamp. I say this is a work-
break and think of midday respite
from work in the Sierra. If I stood
with them, I'd used both hands
to cool my face, my neck. I see
bugs in that grass, youth in those
backs. After the snarl of that bike
fades, I'll slip into the painting,
watch trough-surface tremble,
settle, feel the waterlogged wood,
hear the hiss of grass, feel
sorrow, look for shade.
hans ostrom 2021
