I loved the painter’s ponytail
more than I loved her smears
and directed drippings, her grand
meanders of color that spread
in deltas to the floor
and left the ceiling pulsing.
I loved it more than when she crashed
my car on purpose
or hurled a trash can through
the kitchen window.
All those things her genius did
to make her genius bold and strange,
I loved, but more:
the sway, the plumb,
the elastic tie, the hank drawn tight,
its simple beckoning metronome
to which I fixed a pyramidal eye,
the equilateral of my regard,
looking back, and more,
following me, right to left,
yes directing no, give begging
take, now demanding never,
as if I had a choice to do
anything but raise my fist
and smash the gizmo
I had made, ready as it was
to respond each time I wound up
the unblinking stare
and hypnotized myself
with what I thought I loved.