The Ladies Of The Frick Collection

The Ladies Of The Frick Collection

The grand dames
of The Frick Collection
stare with such condescension
that you fight the urge to check
the sole of your shoes.
We are just commoners
blocking their way to their plumed horses
and plush curtained carriages.

There is Lady Peel
clutching her ermine
with wrists heavy with gold,
eyes as glittering as dark sapphires
daring Thomas Lawrence to come closer.
Madame Baptiste,
tendrils of hair like flowering vines
lips pursed either
to kiss Jean Baptiste-Greuze
or spit on him.
Lady Sarah Innes
with a black velvet
cat collar
even though
she is not Gainsborough's
or anyone's pet.
Lady Meux
lovely hooded eyes so
serpent-like
that you wonder if
Whistler provoked her,
would her tongue be forked?
A group of chattering children
are suddenly silenced
by the bent forefinger
on the perfect chin
on the perfect face
of the icy blue
Countess d'Haussonville
who judges us all
with one upraised eyebrow.

Since I am old myself
I think
what happened to these
women
as they aged?
Did the satin luster
of their complexions
grow dusty or cracked?
Regal cheekbones sinking
like craters?
Moist lips now cracked and pale
as the glint of their eyes
dimmed like a flame extinguished.
Would their husbands find younger replacements
Like Browning's narrator in The Last Dutchess?
Or like the lilacs in my winter garden
would they simply wither away.
Bulbs drooping,
leaves shedding,
petals like pieces of used tissue.

No.
Not these women.
Their fiery eyes reveal
an unconquerable strength.
They would
slap their husband's silly faces
slash at smoother complexions,
stomp with their heeled boots
for recognition.
Never
would they simply vanish.
Be invisible.
The artists who painted their portraits
Understood their immortality.

If these women could slide
from their canvases,
they would drink champagne
the color of pale gold.
And ignore us all
because we lack a brush
and a canvas.