Amy Nawrocki

Too Bad About the Rain

Too bad about the rain, washing away the roadside
as the pond overflowed. If I had painting as a hobby,
I’d paint a lone man feeding ducks
by the side of the road—his pants, ankle high
in water, his hair, white. I’d paint the ducks
white because I haven’t much imagination
when it comes to ducks. Passing the man,
I begged God not to let me die
with ducks the only thing on my mind.

I remember the story of a famous painter
who visited an old, hollow woman
living in a squalid flat above a pencil factory
on the unlit side of town where the fishermen
turn up less than their take in fish.
After leaving her one day, the painter
saw a swan by the docks,
trapped by the anchor of a boat. Later,
when the painter heard the woman had died,
the image of the swan fixed in his mind.

This isn’t the whole story, though. Parts of it
are missing. The woman and the painter
were lovers once, while the harbor thrived
and she was young. Her face comforted him
like cool adobe in summer. The painter held
her beauty, clean and worthy, for his purpose.
Also true, the swan survived to live
in the harbor for a long time, and after
all those years, the painter, too, grew old.

 

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