Heather Bourbeau
From inside the art gallery, an older man
watches a younger woman
try on designer wedding dresses
in a boutique across the street.
The paintings that surround us sell for $60,000.
No one here or there acknowledges
who may have lost their jobs today,
who may be fearing retribution,
who may, at the very least, be uncomfortable.
The featured artist, another man
with white hair ponytail,
prolix, confident,
says he does not care about other people’s
opinions of his work. To him, it is perfect.
I want to scream, Wake up! Instead, we listen,
fidget. This gallery is a refuge, I justify.
Weddings and art are necessary, I think.
But there is a line we are fast approaching
between appreciation and abdication,
between community and complicity.
Heather Bourbeau has read her fiction and poetry on five continents and works with various UN agencies. Her writings are part of the Special Collections at the James Joyce Library, University College Dublin, and her most recent poetry collection, Monarch, examines overlooked histories from the US West.
