The Fisherman
In bed one night – we were still married then –
you talked about a painting of a fisherman
you had seen in Venice as a kid.
You said that, looking at the painting,
you had known how lonely the man felt,
that you saw yourself in him.
You ultimately left me – I heard you remarried –
but, recently, after I was diagnosed with cancer,
my skin – the same skin you slept against –
blossoming with spots like a field of pansies,
I went to Venice to look for the painting.
When I couldn't find it, I asked myself
whether you had not seen it somewhere else,
had confused it with a Winslow Homer
in Boston or Chicago.
To tell you the truth,
I had looked for the fisherman
in every museum I entered since you left me.
With my few regrettable dates after our divorce
and my nieces during their school breaks,
but mostly alone, during the first hours of opening,
I scoured the galleries like a woman who had lost her ring.
Sometimes,
I found a human shape familiar enough
to stop my breath with pain.
In him,
I saw you standing in the kitchen,
a lined void against the light of the fridge.
In him,
I saw you sitting at the edge of the bed,
a pair of socks in your hand –
your hand I used to hold to fall asleep.
I wanted to feel the loneliness you described.
so I could understand why
you had to leave,
so I could forgive you
in another life,
so I would know
that you had not lied to me that night.