122 K RYSI A WA ZN Y MCCL A IN
In Which I Am Visited by the Ghost of Georgia O’Keeffe I could not feel, much less know, but I kept spotting Georgia. The elderly painter in black and white pushing color like a horse pill into my palm, piercing me with her stare in New York, Boston, Chicago. What would it take to love “Spring” again? To love even “Red Canna,” its violet petals folding snuggly into red. The red petals overflow the canvas’s edges. Finally, I touch myself to the thrum of a woman’s body. Her answer is coming. That morning, Georgia’s ghost shimmies out from the crack beside my bed, tossing her hat onto my husband’s nightstand. She fumbles at her waistline, until a flower flips from a starched pocket.
