Subhashini Kaligotla
After Edward Hopper
Not beautiful, a species
of beautiful perhaps, composed
of well-made parts, but not
beautiful; Not erotic either
or arousing:
There’s no quiver, no thrum
in the groin, no blood-rush,
though the picture
has all the makings
of desire:
part pinup, part porn,
part girlie show;
Femme fatale
with none of the flourishes:
quietly upright,
white terry cloth towel
raised to her chest,
in profile,
far from the room’s blue
enclosure, yet standing stolid
by the window.
The city resuming its business
beneath her.
She doesn’t answer the gaze
from a sumptuous bed, no pillows
plumped behind her, servant
and feline in attendance, a slipper
dangled provocatively,
out of pique;
There is no invitation here, no transaction
to be entered.
For the bed is abandoned.
The room’s cool light,
the bed’s narrow proportions
are too small
for the kind of desire she feels,
for the ambitions she savors
before taking off her hat,
folding her dress, and letting it rest
for the night
on the back of the chair.