Radianza
By Louisa Loveridge Gallas
Pears. Whoever named you
must have been tired while
harvesting in the orchard.
You should have light
in your name, “radianza,”
“peartasia,” murmurations
of vowels not one syllable
closed quickly
with consonants!
Fruitful teardrop
of bright flesh
freshness of cool water
Van Gogh,
Monet, Matisse
illuminate you
in gleaming bowls
on vivid table cloths
tilting at the edge
of vintage tables,
still lifes graciously hung
at eye level in museums
where we turn
a corner suddenly
to gasp
at your curves,
luminescence.
So sweet yet
indescribably something
unnameable, elusive,
kiss of young lovers,
tender with a slight nip
of mystery
full of promise that makes
old artists weep and paint
your lusciousness
on the poignant fabric
of memory.
