Amidst the museum’s tomb
and mineral-penny smell
of stone, we unstilled
stagnant air with fluttered
maps and beelined to Goya,
whose dark cartoon
nightmares roiled with egg-
white eyes, gnashing teeth,
a father stormed by madness.
Beside her in the garret bed,
beneath the eaves like pigeons,
I counted the slow measured
breaths of her sleep,
knew our nights were numbered.
Through the skylight, city-lit
night clouds raced yellow.
Goya’s final isolation,
silence, visited like fog
and sat heavy on my chest.
In the morning I blurted
an end to love, spent the day
alone with Goya, tears
disappearing from my shirt-
sleeve in the sack-dry cool.
Saturn’s stick-legs, his frizzled
hair, and the innocent’s blood
sung to all we devour
for the sake of the beautiful.

About the author

Trent Nutting has been to Brazil, Utah, Florida, and all the pretend places his children's books take him. He writes at a three-by-two kitchen…

Read the full bio

Issue 14 · February 2012

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