The frame is twelve by fourteen. The soprano
sits demurely on a chaise, resplendent
in black and white, her hands crossed in her lap
like a Gilded-Age Vanderbilt heiress.
I tilt the picture back and forth childishly
admiring the glossy streak of light that
ripples across its surface. I will place her
reverently on my wall and marvel
at the tilt of her head as her whole face
is suspended in permanent song.
La Divina is the triumph of the Greeks,
we remind ourselves as our economy
crumbles. We are La Traviata, fallen
woman. We are tainted. She is untouchable.