Requiem for a Requiem                      — Paula Modersohn-Becker, 1876-1907  
 Shaking shame from her brush, she presses
 it to canvas. Before her, women could not
 paint women naked. Before her, women
 could not gaze into the mirror of their flesh.  
 Still lines erasing taboo: spite-green goblet,
 halved fruit. The women staring, bare. Or
 nursing unclothed, eyes on the artist’s eyes.
                                               Without shame: a style.  
 She haunts her friend, Rilke, from beyond
 the grave she predicted for herself, days past
 giving birth. For years: refused that death  
 warrant. Near the art colony, she reinvents
 her solitude. Glass held up to query an angle,
 bootlegged light in a doorway. Bootlegged:  
 a daughter’s open eyes. Clichés of haunt: Paris
 ateliers, Cézanne’s oranges, fractured Picasso
 nudes. Knowing what they knew. Saw how  
 style derives from itself: how a body idealized
 by desire floats in trees, vanishes in clouds. 
Never to laugh, pick up a kid, bleed. She picks  
 up a kid, bleeds. Leaving Rilke’s portrait un-
 done. Drifting now into his “Requiem,”
 writ for her: “friend,” this shadow body. He  
 beckons now into candlelight. She listens
 to her own breath, dying. So like each
 gasp at the start. Says: 
Did you know Death   cheers at each conception? as Love looks to her
 in the mirror: sweet murder. Chance-
 implacable is the enthroned soul, but she rises on  
 each brushstroke. Deathless, her way
 to unveil a woman’s body. But “Schande!” she cries,
 her dying word, holding her newborn daughter to her  
 breast. Shame! 
Soul, come claim the body.								
									 Copyright © 2018 by Carol Muske-Dukes. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.