2 June 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 2

Studio Visit

by CHERYL SNELL

She baked a meatloaf. He told stories

that hurt her ears: debauched

Mexican nights. Peyote, hallucinations,

drowning in another woman's arms.

After dinner, they unrolled canvas onto the floor.

When each grazed the other's empty spaces,

neither one apologized.

Blue oils saturated my senses, pounded

my temples like a bass-line. A fugue of colors sung,

then grew transparent in their logic and grace.

"Inspired by String Quartet, Opus so and such"

he muttered, finger crooked in a painterly gesture.

When he said goodbye, the painting still tucked

under his arm, we dreaded the moment

he would relinquish it; and fall silent,

so we understood, for days.

His wife would go back to archiving his life, keeping

his portrait next to the bed like a suicide note.

The meatloaf really was superb, the wine purple

as a bruise.