María Richardson

RESTING IN THE GALLERY

I’ve forgotten the artist’s name again,
so I lie down to see if the ground will tell me.

Two taps, I know, the second louder. I lie down
to let my thoughts catch up with my speeding heart.

The psychoanalyst declared I mustn’t care enough.
(He never forgets the things he cares about).

But this name, haven’t I carried it around
since childhood, trading postcards in leotards?

I could get up, steal a glance at the syllables on the plate,
the fingerprints on the wax, but the sculpture’s foot

marks a shadow on my own leg.
The footsteps resume: a guard?

A tourist? Either would encourage me
to resume verticality before I can.