“If I Told Him. A Completed Portrait of Picasso” 
                                      —Gertrude Stein, 1923

If he asked me if I liked it
If I told him would he like it? 
Would he like it if I told him
the wheelchair was in the way?

Fine for my long-standing husband,
but I was pushing the chair,
suffering complaints about my driving, 
warnings of near-missed ankles or shins, 
and navigating for a front-row seat 
before Picasso or Matisse
proved major distractions—

until we came to Gertrude
settled Buddha-like on a pedestal,
relaxed in the folds and creases
of her fully rounded bronze girth,
one shirt button left undone,
hands resting on a skirt pulled taut
across parted knees. Hair pulled back in a bun, 
light reflecting from cheekbones and chin.

Leaning forward
as if she had something to confide, 
inviting the viewer to linger, come closer, 
caught in her gaze and sheer presence.

There was there there.