Elegy for Camille Monet There always comes a point when it doesn’t matter what I’m looking at, you or I or the animals or the artist starts to cry. This what happened in front of the Monet: simple to admit and yet harder to twist between fingers. We went looking for Impression, Sunrise of course. See it whenever you get the chance, you said. How many trees have you climbed? How long can you hold your breath? Longer underwater than above? What do you hear when you close your eyes? At what time every night do you dream the owl is eating away your tongue? Do you mind still being referred to as human? —I remember: it was you who cried. * His father could have exempt him from war but refused. Punishment for being an artist. Later his aunt paid 3,000 francs to rescue him from duty. The pamphlet tells us to imagine the burning sand and how it peeled away the skin from his feet, nothing underneath, not even blood. Not even guilt. POETRY | 101
Fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and art selected for phoebe's 49.1 issue.