A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry

Diego is Painted by D. H. Lawrence in the Desert

304 A Face to Meet the Faces Diego is Painted by D. H. Lawrence in the Desert Rane Arroyo We laugh at the whiteness of his back and ass, that he doesn’t know that the sun will paint him red soon, that the yellow of his nudes is nothing compared to a cactus pear eaten at noon after Chihuahua tequila shots. Such innocence has to be saved from itself. We take off our clothes so he can paint us and learn about the brown of a perfectly baked bread, the brown of stones older than gods. Diego, my amigos laugh, he looks at you and sees something and cuidado, beware, never take off your gold cross. * Frida makes sure David and I are never alone for too long. I pretend not to speak English because she is angry at me and at everyone but her painter. He’s just a model. I grab the shovel for the impossible garden they want by the back door. Soon, David says as I leave, you, mountain, me, soon. His Spanish is broken, but honest. Frida follows me so I take off my shirt to show off 305 The Muse Talks Back my chest and the fierce heart she will never know. David waves to us and I wave back just so Frida’s jealousy eats a feast. * We sun naked on the mountain after his mining of the rainbow in his palette. Hombre, David says, do you think the sun is an unthinking tantalizer? I can’t answer in English so I nod. He throws his voice into the staid canyons: the nexus is worthy the thorns that protect it! His sex is relaxed, a serpent not from my world. I break words too: you, me, us, mountain, mystery, fire inside the heart, corazón, God’s furnace. Now he is ready to paint me as I am. * Artists and obviously future lovers show up for Frida’s party to show off Davíd’s paintings (He’s earned the accent mark). I’m pulled from the ranch because I keep my fingernails clean. Frida eyes me, but I know how to pour wine and stand invisible until beckoned. Davíd refuses to attend the mock-Paris mockery of a salon event. He’s painting in the desert, and I risk being fired by seeking him out. Juan the Beloved, he says, pulling me to his chest. He and I know my name’s not Juan. 306 A Face to Meet the Faces * His death far from me is astonishing: so other old worlds are real. No one says anything directly, but la taverna gives me free drinks on hearing the news. A spurned widow or widower (no one asks me) is bad luck for business. I drive to our mountain and undress. Gestures must never burden the dead. I throw the gold cross into the cosmos. It sprouts wings. Again, I’m left behind. * Frida burns all the paintings of me as the alchemist, vaquero, the sun’s chosen one, worker with optimism, and the erection that casts no shadows. And she has demanded I see the burning. And she knows of my knowledge. And she spends Davíd’s money on matches. And she has a young lover already. But I’ve not disappeared, Fraülein, I say in perfected English. I’ve read all his books aloud in my obscure house. On cue, she needs to hurt me, there were many others. She doesn’t know that Davíd gave me paintings that are now my windows, and that I look out of them into the desert where we learned not to be enigmas. ...