As she lies
on her belly

on the striped
and stained mattress

floating on a pond
of walnut brown

her hands folded in front
legs crossed in the back

one breast spilled
toward an elbow

a shadow fallen
right on the spot

at the base
of the back

where the flesh
begins to cleave

she turns her head
completely away

revealing only
a part in the back

and one twisted
Prussian pigtail.




HELGA ON HER KNEES
(after Andrew Wyeth)

Even in this position
in bed she's never

been known to beg.
She turns her head

so the sunlight
is forced to settle

on the strands of hair
that whirlpool down

into a russet pigtail.
One hand turns

behind to rest,
near the wrist,

on an invisible cheek
as the ends of knotted

pigtails turn and twist
competing with nipples.

All she offers is
an eyelash pulling

a lid almost
over an eye.




HELGA IN MOONLIGHT
(after Andrew Wyeth)

Turned on her side
in front of
the farmhouse window

with her eyes closed
as the darkness
and a small waterfall
serenade her sleep

she raises her right
arm across her head
and over the pillow

and the sheet falls
to where the short
hair curls.

As she dreams
of a man she loves
her mouth mimes
a rocking rhythm

and moonlight blesses
her left nipple
and the side
of the mound

with the navel
in the middle.




HELGA ON A STOOL
(after Andrew Wyeth)

She sits on a stool
in the darkness
near the window
where she once let
her hair fall down.

She is the light
in the room.

She is younger
than she was
the day you met.

Her face turns
away again, but
nothing else.

The rest of her
turns, conscious
or not, toward
someone nearby.

A small oval
of light from
the world beyond

has found her
left nipple

another large
triangle cuts
across one hip
toward the other knee

highlighting a few
brown curlicues
from the smaller
triangle between
her legs.

You want to touch
your lips to the
flecks of light

at her left ankle
where her legs cross
on the stool

and the base
of her neck
where tendons
are stretched.

The leaf blowing
in through the window
is not her only lover.




HELGA AGAINST A TREE IN WINTER
(after Andrew Wyeth)

She and the expanse of bark
she leans back against
are almost one.

Her hands snuggle
in the pockets of
the Loden coat.

Heel and sole
of her right boot
are propped on a rock
half a step away.

Light snow streaks
the brown hillside
beyond woman and tree.

Everything is frozen.
Everything is dead.
She is alone.

Her pale Nordic face
is the only light.

The whole story
can never be told.

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