Having Never Visited the Ghent Altarpiece

Sunday, October 26, 2031

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.

Saturday, January 15, 2022