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Schad paced
the length of his studio
and stopped at the wall,
staring
at a blank space. Behind him
the clang and hum of Hardenbergstrasse, its
automobiles and organ grinders.
Quarter to five.
His eyes traveled
to the plaster scrollwork
on the ceiling. Did that
hold back heaven?
He could not leave his skin---once
he'd painted himself in a new one,
silk green, worn
like a shirt.
He thought
of Rasha, so far from Madagascar,
turning slowly in place as
the boa constrictor
coiled counterwise its
heavy love. How
the spectators gawked, exhaling
beer and sour herring sighs.
When the tent lights dimmed,
Rasha went back to her trailer and plucked
a chicken for dinner.
The canvas,
not his eye,
was merciless.
He remembered Katja the Russian
aristocrat, late
for every sitting,
still fleeing
the October Revolution---
how she clutched her sides
and said not
one word. Whereas Agosta
(the doorbell rang)
was always on time, lip curled
as he spoke in wonder of women
trailing
backstage to offer him
the consummate bloom of their lust.
Schad would
place him
on a throne, a white sheet tucked
over his loins, the black suit jacket
thrown off like a cloak.
Agosta had told him
of the medical students
at the Charite,
that chill arena
where he perched on
a cot, his torso
exposed, its crests and fins
a colony of birds, trying
to get out...
and the students,
lumps caught
in their throats, taking notes.
Ah, Rasha's
foot on the stair.
She moved slowly, as if she carried
the snake around her body
always.
Once
she brought fresh eggs into
the studio, flecked and
warm as breath.
Agosta in
classical drapery, then,
and Rasha at his feet.
Without passion. Not
the canvas
but their gaze,
so calm,
was merciless.
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