The Piano Lesson: Henri Matisse
In dimmed rooms a metronome
measures each gray second
of a boy’s gray hour.
The measure counts the gray meters
from the tinged blue bars
to the washed blue apron
where she–mother? teacher?–roosts
on a stool, back straight,
hands tucked tight between her thighs.
No owl in moonless winter is as keen.
The boy’s meter measures
the distance between the garden’s
green gravity and her faceless moon.
He measures the pillar of pale blue
curtain where it parts
verdant zest from slated task;
anchoring in opposition,
the raw sienna shaft
that unfolds becoming
the subtly hued geometry of the head.
The black blade is the boy’s dread,
while the piano’s flush heat stirs a gut
hunger: a need to master,
that magnetizes the iron eye.
His meter is the space bound by
blush rose plane and muted blue tablature.
Black brushstrokes, unfurled in arabesque
flow and grow, steal right to left;
sly-eyed music rack to
balustrade and the wide window;
an air to lift a bright sail.
The strain, the candle notes, will not be restrained.
And here at bottom left
a small nude bronze,
in rich cocoa patina,
listens in seated ease
and patiently weights the
measured metered space.