Blume–
If only rafters buckled more easily. If only his studio had been fireproof and Agnes faithful. If only automobiles didn’t accordion against walls and vertebrae rupture. If only his mother hadn’t starved to death.
I’m sorry you found Gorky hanging in the barn, Blume. I’m sorry for the vast leviathan of if-onlys that led to your collaboration, as you called it.
Gorky had a rough go in Connecticut.
If only the farmer had left the bromeliads alone.
Agnes once likened her husband’s easel to a giant crucifix. You likened Gorky to Christ in the crucifixion after the car wreck with Levy left him hospitalized (That head of his pulled way back in traction. And he sort of put his arms out…).
Gorky was dead a month later.
If only paralysis hadn’t crippled his hand.
The Crucifixion you painted, Blume, of the dangling, cross-less Christ, is that him? And the silver, bulging-eyed tchotchke sewn below, is that you?
You sat beneath the body while Cowley sought help.
If only you’d waited outside?
Gorky carved a final message into a wooden crate: Goodbye, My Loveds. I wonder if your final message to Gorky isn’t etched on the body of Christ in Crucifixion–his many wounds, his many if-onlys, brought bleeding into the light–I see you, my friend, and I’m sorry.
The pain is evident, Blume.
If only we weren’t our deepest cuts.