Le dejeuner sur l'herbe

I'm not embarrassed.  No, my fixed stare
suggests only that you're interlopers on the scene.
Oh years ago, I could rouse a media storm.
Today my nakedness seems nominal.  Clean

country air; a tipped basket of fruit,
a knot of bread; for cloth, the sweet
summer grass--this outing is a holiday from
my cramped flat, heat-swollen city streets.

A friend came with me.  By the sun-lit bank
you'll find her, just risen from a bath,
slipping into a white chemise.  Surely you've
entered into places like this, where faith

distills your life to one shimmering afternoon
and lets you rest there.  But Manet tried
to warn us about opposites.  Since you've
stayed, baffled by the canvas, I'll confide

there is something indelicate here.  Business
suits at a picnic!  Our dates refused to remove
their jackets and cravats.  One stares off, bored,
into the distance.  My suitor in the hat reproves

critics of the latest exhibit at the Salon
des Refuses as if I weren't here.  Their
presence makes me more naked than I am.
Visitors to the museum can't help but stare.

(c)Jane Ellen Glasser               2010