ANDREW WYETH, PAINTER, DIES AT 91
A weathered barn on a hilltop; a nude woman
sprawled on the slope
A giant squid rises out of a hayfield, & the barn
is compassed in tentacles
then a cloud of ink.
A man with a fountain pen in his hand
& a pitchfork
in his back
walks the cow-path around the barn
& tells the beauty
on the hill
to step to it. It’s as if her freckled skin
is newly charcoaled
& the hayloft
a smokescreen. The cows can’t be heard for certain
within the inkblot
creep to the edge of the field on
This poem first appeared in The Believer and was reprinted in Best American Poetry 2011. It is collected in Cloud of Ink (University of Iowa Press, 2010) and is reprinted here with the author’s permission. Copyright L.S. Klatt 2010, all rights reserved.
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This motionpoem is presented in collaboration with Best American Poetry 2011 (Scribner), with thanks to David Lehman, series editor.