Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
Henri Matisse died of a heart attack
staring at the open-mouthed
windows facing the alpenglow
on the Alps; in his head remained many
reclining women wearing bright-faced hats
like chandeliers. Perhaps he’d come back
to life in the aching umbra of his room.
The back-scattered light of dawn
straddling the horizon, golden sunflowers
peacefully posed, lemons and assorted fruit
stunned; the coffeepot cold and unused, tables
flatly waited determined and confused.