Rita Dove - Agosta the Winged Man and Rasha the Black Dove lyrics

Schad paced the length of his studio and stopped at the wall, staring at a blank space. Behind him the clang and hum of Hardenbergstra**e, its automobiles and organ grinders. Quarter to five. His eyes traveled to the plaster scrollwork on the ceiling. Did that hold back heaven? He could not leave his skin - once he'd painted himself in a new one, silk green, worn like a shirt. He thought of Rasha, so far from Madagascar, turning slowly in place as the boa constrictor coiled counterwise its heavy love. How the spectators gawked, exhaling beer and sour herring sighs. When the tent lights dimmed, Rasha went back to her trailer and plucked a chicken for dinner The canvas, not his eye, was merciless. He remembered Katja the Russian aristocrat, late for every sitting, still fleeing the October Revolution - how she clutched her sides and said not one word. Whereas Agosta (the doorbell rang) was always on time, lip curled as he spoke in wonder of women trailing backstage to offer him the consummate bloom of their lust. Schad would place him on a throne, a white sheet tucked over his loins, the black suit jacket thrown off like a cloak. Agosta had told him of the medical students at the Charite that chill arena where he perched on a cot, his torso exposed, its crests and fins a colony of birds trying to get out . . . and the students lumps caught in their throats, taking notes. Ah, Rasha's foot on the stair. She moved slowly, as if she carried the snake around her body always. once she brought fresh eggs into the studio, flecked and warm as breath Agosta in cla**ical drapery, then, and Rasha at his feet. Without pa**ion. Not the canvas but their gaze, so calm, was merciless.