Composition With Glove by Kenneth Pobo
COMPOSITION WITH GLOVE
By Pablo Picasso
About my own birth, the stories
change. My mother is dead.
I try to remember what she said
about my arrival. It’s dust. Mostly.
A Caesarean, I had hair
the nurses combed. In my fifties now,
dust feels closer than ever.
The email arrives about a friend,
my age, with prostate cancer.
Carl Sagan said at our deaths
the light we see may be that of
our entrance into the world.
Light and dust—juggling,
one trying to get the upper hand.
Picasso: Art washes the soul
of the dust of the everyday. Memory
covers over with a fine silt. Soon
we can’t blow it away, find
strange patterns, trace lines
that disappear, become something
unrecognizable. Even my body
looks like dust when I see lines
that form, the hand that surely
can’t be mine but is
grabbing at a darkness turning
to bright flecks that fall and fade.