When news broke that the fabric of space/time
rippled, making an audible chirp, you were still
fresh and nude, your brunette hair tinged with blue,
and the scallop of a curtain revealed cobalt blue
sky, but that was not the story. A white rumpled bed
of pillows, sheets, a royal blue blanket lay arranged
as your throne. The trumpet blooms—there were three—
of the amaryllis opened just a millimeter more,
dropping a scattering of golden pollen grains
onto the soil of the pot. But the real acclaim
and news was how as a woman you rose there, frank,
blushing, bold in your pose, without a name
yet known by us all as a goddess of morning light,
a glowing pillar, small breasts eager to be touched,
believing, as we do, that this moment will stay,
lasting in paint, as the house on Fulton Street stands,
the way black holes, vanished a billion years, left an
effect, and you do as well, gaze now meeting ours.
Patricia Clark
