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.