Maya Bejerano

Gainsborough

Whore of Lilliputians. Spiritual spy.
Your unattainable knowledge is full of dimness.
Your body a sweet afikoman.
We may deduce that Gainsborough is what we’ll call the girl.

Gainsborough was cut from a yellow curtain
bluer than blue with utter insolence.
Vain chambers collapsed,
or prepared by houses you mean chambers.

The juice of your mind is in gloom
rolling back the skin of spring,
plaiting sun’s rays into braids at the ball
roofs smoking with ardor, the blazing honey of roofs,
and the red roof tile is a sandal for my feet.

Gainsborough, velvet lad. Parlors upon you,
Gainsborough. Influences from all sides,
from every limb,
and perfect wholeness ripens, bending and
bowing to you.

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