Dispatch on the Golden Ratio
Dispatch on the Golden Ratio | Megan Gannon
All my life I’ve loved the pleasure of catching
and cataloguing the little beauties that flit past.
I snatch them from their own evanescence
and pin them through their living center.
They last a little longer, or forever, depending.
At any moment I can conjure inside myself
the paisley-shaped eyes my oldest son was given
by another woman, his smooth, almost boneless wrists,
tight curls that grow over the faintly-downy rind
of his still-years-later-and-for-always-eminently-kissable
forehead. Little wonder when I found a body I craved
above all others, I conjured a copy of it in miniature.
Disbelief still, as I curl around my second son
and catalog the wide-palmed hands, end-jutting ribs,
balled calves, and gnome nose. I’ve worried at times
that my love for his father was only skin-deep—the sight
of his sinuous arms tugging my hips towards him
locking and unlocking the clasp of my breathing,
the thirst-catch I can never quench no matter
how many mouths. For centuries his body
has sent artists scrambling towards a blankness
they needed to imprint with the felt permanence
of his perfection. Most of us aren’t up to the task.
Two sculptors abandoned the block of marble
before Michelangelo coaxed my lover’s legs
from that buttery rock. Polykleitos used his proportions
to invent geometry. DaVinci inscribed his form
inside a circle, an image that echoes across centuries
like music of the spheres. He hardly knows
how to inhabit that heavenly body. Through
dappled forest and sun-glutted prairies, I watch
calves slip past the dip of opposite knee
like puzzle pieces. Once, he walked into a coffee shop
and tugged at his shirt-hem as if he understood
the absurdity of his clothing, and I caught the flutter
of that image between my own two hands
and drove the pen in.