She hides, huddled behind packing crates
wrapped in muslin, jarred from
riding over the one-two thrusts of
cobblestone road.
She’s on a hide out from Hitler.
How many journeys has she been on?
Several – some shorter than others.
Slipshod movement from one room to
another, minor fingerprints leaving trace
oils on her desperately dry skin; listening to
the drones of salon parlor wunderkinds
extemporizing on her beauty.
Men have literally killed over her.
Not one satisfied with mere infatuation,
its not lust really – more like overwhelming desire
to possess.
Some have even gone to war to capture her hand.
Why?
For an overrated smile, actually a grin thought
mischievous or knowing. But its only paint.
Paint smeared on a canvas.
Extremely well smeared by the artist, yes, but
typical in subject and presentation of the
High Renaissance.
Da Vinci drew all day in his notebooks, writing
backwards about his inventions, discoveries,
theories, and ideas. Vitruvian Man and the
Golden Mean must be more important
than she.
He drew anatomical images and studied the pathways
of veins, he drew a man and woman during
intercourse imagining a cutaway view
so much like a CT Scan its amazing…
just so he could better understand
procreation.
That one sure isn’t hanging in the Louvre.
But this woman’s portrait hangs in the gallery
isolated, hidden behind thick bullet-proof
glass.
Mobbed by thousands of strangers a day
just to get a postcard view of her curled little lips.
The majority surely has no taste
but they do recognize Mona Lisa’s face
and that must count for something.
The Numinous Cosmos 