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Woman in a Green Room, by Robert Berény, 1927
Woman in a Green Room, 1927
by MFrostDelaney
The room was green but wouldn’t color-graph
that way because the woman plying work
was sad, so sad the walls around her splayed
blue-gray. But she kept fingers busy: one
then two then three then four, a stitch
of melancholy growing to a chain,
a mantra in her hands to fill her lap,
if not her heart, as empty as the vase
that held some flowers once, not now because
her sometime-lover went away. Perhaps
he found another, one with much more charm,
who danced, who cooed, who didn’t need a crutch
of safety, could release the wild within.
Imagination pulled her thread. She strained
to keep composure checked, the room so stark.
So this is all alone, the senses rough,
but bound with limitations: formal, meek,
her life, distorted color, tin-type bleak.
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