Nick Martino

After Self-Portrait in Paris by Vincent van Gogh

Prussian blue is the color of shadow,
a man whispers to the young woman
on his arm. The color rings the pupil
like a bell laminated in ice. It must be
the color of the word plaza, of the sky
opening above Jardin du Luxembourg
like a swimming pool whose winter tarp
is lifted away. Paris in June, how can I not
think of love, when longing was a cotton
dress I wore to threads, flush as the young
woman basking in the projection of this
immersive exhibit. I watch her wade
into the liquid image, and wade in too.
I take a selfie, call it Self-Portrait in Self-
Portrait in Paris, and send it to you—

Last night, stoned as the blind saints in heaven,
I fainted on the dancefloor. I should know better
than to mix depressants and pleasure. You were gone,
the paramedics said. Today, on the mend, I repeat the word
like a child lobbing a curse he overheard.
Where was I when I fainted, as my gone body
polished the parquet floor?
This morning, waking
to a photo you sent. Your silhouette in the cotton blue
projection of a painting. The painting unfamiliar to me, you
were a figure gone beyond my knowing
like the woman you were before I was born.
Before I was born, you lived a whole life.
And then I rose out of the lake of you.