Mural, Jackson Pollock, 1943

oil and casein on canvas, 7 feet 11 inches x 19 feet 10 inches

I pilgrim to the East Building, National Gallery,where this vast wonder-in-residence glows –

pulsing with such writhing teals and yellows. Twiningpinks and blacks. I stand before it silent, reverent.

Pollock's eleventh-hour tempest after so much stasisyou knew he'd volcano. One way or another. A prickling

fear. Then the sudden late-night abruption. Tantrumof stroke and splatter. A thousand throws and tosses --

on and on through the rocketing nightto the revelation of morning:

Colossal cartography of the masteredmindscape, clamorous.

But it didn't happen that way, did it, Lee Krasner?Yours a myth, impossible. A stolen fire.

This stampede raged over nights and nightsover weeks, perhaps a season. Scent

of linseed oil and turpentine pervading. His flicksand flurries a rumba on sober evenings.

On whiskey nights you fed him eggs and milk.You washed away his filth. Draped

a cool hand across a smoldering forehead.You mothered 'til you emptied.

While your colors turned to sludge in the outer room –muse-abandoned. This fable some consolation.