Artwork by May Lim
Rothko’s rectangles stare
from walls you never imagine
you’d run into,
but you’re at a gathering
with superb wine
so you have a second glass
even though you are dungeon master
and to prepare solicit relief
the hostess demurely directing the way
with her hand, fingers pinioned
garrulous mauve nails
that match her thigh-highs
stains from kicking submissives,
you turn a corner and two rectangles
are saddled on the wall
eying you from their mount.
It’s the two fattest middle fingers
you’ve ever seen.
Your ambushed diaphragm
slow to brace decants itself
a shrill aah,
not the kind that would be heard
downstairs when the soiree
members see your soiled leather,
but an aah like a giant squid’s eyeball
agape at your chin dimple
which regardless of how clean
your boots get licked tonight
will be there in the morning
as you run your hand
over your mouth
recall where it’s been
and accidentally brush
your indent
that seems to you to be the gathering place
for every tear you’ve ever wept.
Rothko knew his paintings were brash
the kind of fare that would usurp
viewer confidence—
with titles such as No. 22 and Untitled—
as they seem to expand
à la a clown blown balloon
tied into a wiener dog,
then a cockatoo and finally a Minotaur
that the clown realizes is the best
he’s ever going to do
probably the most realistic
balloon myth ever knotted,
so the clown carefully sets down
the pulchritudinous Minotaur
to work his way through the maze
of prosthetics and get-up
he’s got on to find his camera,
when a child whose patience
has steadily, agonizingly waned
waiting to request a simple rabbit
picks up the Minotaur too tightly.
~ Matthew Schmidt
Matthew Schmidt is pursuing a MFA at the University of Arizona. His work has been published or is forthcoming in ‘Asinine Poetry’, ‘Down in the Dirt’ and ‘Eye On Life’.
