A Visit with Van Gogh
I walk through broad strokes of sun,
wheat bent over, women carrying
bundled sheaves, trees dark
in the distance. At the edge
of the field, he sits, crumpled,
still, and filled with light. I sit
beside him, look out over the late
afternoon, over the stubbled fields,
the roughened skin of soil.
In his dark wild eyes,
for one moment, I see galaxies
colliding, shining cities of darkness
crumbling. His gaze returns
to his palette, to the field beyond
his work. I finger an obsidian chip,
feel the edge of its glassy smoothness,
the darkness of his implosion. A black hole
flowers at the center of his soul.
The bottom of my sleeve, the hem
of my dress, my hair blow toward him.
A great light radiates from his darkness,
illuminates the coming night.
by Mary Stebbins Taitt
published in Montserrat Review
Marie Rivet has translated this to French, which you can view here.