I would like to wrap myself in this
trail of white azaleas, feel on my winter skin
the frilly softness of petals and quivering stamens,
with a shawl of lilacs carrying their scent
into the pleasure centers of my brain. And why
not? Klimt has painted Emilie in twilight-blue
silk studded with gold seeds and stars. He
studied microscope slides of sperm and egg cells
as he painted Frau Bloch-Bauer, her
slim torso swimming with ova in gold
on a sea of gold, with small black sperm
erect at her hips. Then he painted her again,
Adele, mantled in green on a ground
of flowers. So many women he envisioned
robed, swathed, festooned with blooms in a riot
of color – Eugenia in pink, orange, yellow,
and turquoise petals, sweet Marie in her candlelit
floral, Ria, Mada, Baroness Elisabeth, all
wearing gardens. He saw something in
each of them, hungers and stardust, seeds
and openings. And I was there, where he painted,
I was in Vienna once, in early summer,
strolling along the Ringstrasse under pale new
leaves, in the glinting shade of the linden trees,
where Freud took his daily walks, having already
published his thoughts on wish fulfillment
in dreams and daydreams. Little did I dream
then that one day I would wake
in another country, another season,
surprised to feel my aging body brushed
by azaleas and lilacs, licked by a warm breeze,
and that I would remember Klimt and think Yes!
He is designing my new dress!
Portrait by Gustav Klimt, 1907. Oil, Silver, and Gold on Canvas.
