The Marriage Bed

by Elise Paschen

Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee around a Pomegranate a Second before Awakening
Salvador Dali

That he painted her suspended above a rock — his wife,
asleep, naked, after biting a pomegranate, seeds spit
into ocean. That the bee, before a sting, craves the sweet
suck and sip of Venus-fruit. That the artist, straight-backed
in bony armchair, would doze, heavy key between thumb
and forefinger. That the clatter of metal hitting the tin plate beneath
his hand, wakes him up: a Capuchin monk technique. That she
does not tumble into the sea, his muse, afloat, scumbled there.
But when Miro pictures his wife in Woman Dreaming
of Escape, one eye is open wide while a ladder hovers, cross-hatched,
above her head. That this wife has no exit. That the orb
disgorges the red snapper which spews out two
tigers with bayonet about to jab the under-flesh
of her arm. That I forgot to mention the elephant on spider-stilts
balancing an obelisk on back. The artist etched the sky
by noon, the backdrop after 6 p.m. That in the Thyssen,
when I was late, racing past Picasso and Chagall,
Dali bellowed, arresting my step. I lost
sight of my husband on the mezzanine. That Gala
is stung. That Pilar takes flight. That sleeping
women interrupt their spouses’ canvases.

Published on May 24, 2017