A Portrait of Kubrick. Cat and Sweetheart
Years ago I had it hаnging in my room –
Kubrick at the movie set
in front of a chess board –
thoughtful, unkempt
-as if it could be otherwise
when one decides to take a picture
in front of a chess board.
The cat would jump on him,
out of all photos would choose this one.
Probably sensed that the move he faced,
the move whose meaning would make us remember him,
was never made.
The cat would pull him off the nail,
aggressively pace, sniff.
Once, behind my back, as I was boiling water
for coffee, the cat ripped him into squares
and turned the squares into cosmic dust.
Peace settled.
Empty spot on the wall
between Kubrick behind the camera
and Picasso with a palm pressed to a windowpane.
Now a certain lad from Helsinki
looking at a portrait of my sweetheart
starts talking about the goddess mother among celestial drizzle –
he’s been reminded of a scene from a Stanley film,
a closing scene with an embryo –
and describes the otherworldly feelings
stirred in him.
Since this same portrait
is a symbol of sorrow,
of grieving of the past and the foregone,
a sorrow that could also be attributed
to any chess game,
I snicker,
but deliberately, and without joy.
Another cat naps in my lap now,
and in her tummy ears are being formed,
little tails, rulers of spaces,
commentators of unfinished chess games.