Sometimes he felt guilty. Sudden flashes
of Anghiari would make her vanish
for brief seconds. She’d rouse him with dashes
of queries: Did he believe the Spanish
would attack Naples? Was he sad his head
grew bald? Ah, such questions from you, Monna,
he’d murmur, focusing on pyramid
and spheres, skin’s consistent color on a
hand and cheek. The poplar panel would warp;
he must frame it soon. He knew his fine oils
eased sfumato—flesh both shadowed and sharp,
without tired lines of motherhood. I’ll spoil
Andrea, she’d giggle. Winter down south.
He’d hear himself sigh, Please don’t move your mouth.
Roger Armbrust
January 14, 2008
