Having Never Visited the Ghent Altarpiece
I wouldn’t know, but when I imagine being there in the room
with the real thing, its many glowing painted sections are nearly
weightless, and they float, silent, barely held together by their frames,
and in the darkness, in my head, they fold slightly, hinged wings
that make me want to go in them, walk the green field, be among
the crowd of devotees—which I am not, not Christian, not Flemish,
not a man, and should I someday go to Ghent, that cathedral
will fail me somehow: some crucial information, which is to say, light,
withheld. Still. I’d like to test this theory, face to face: that the special
beauty of Adam stepping, one senses, with shame, ahead, is mine,
and mine, the quietly joyful angels all swinging their censers. Stolen
seven times, returned to me. In the dim vast space, I’d call to them,
O my containers, my parents, my beloveds! O Eve of the strong
gaze, the rounded belly, all-knowing! Hello, my contemporary.
