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Art Histor

Daniel David

The rapist sat there, right there, in art history, beneath
my dimmed ambiance, my droning lecture on antiquity.

He was any other kid, a wiry, bony-hide he-goat Pan,
tanned from landscaping Ohio Arcadia, a young man

finding his way, a bit squirrely, surly at times, certainly
harmless, right? who chatted up, charmed the girls around

him, his small-talk harem. The sly bad-boy played the pipes,
and for an instant, as a man, I liked his swagger.

But I wondered, my instinct nagging, What was it, his
obsession? Dear women, had I known – your peril, your peril.

Then came his mug-shot, his arrest, his victim, his news.
My scholar advanced, cum laude, finally his distinction,

from mere voyeur at the mall to an intimate brutality.
I wondered, was it the Greeks? It must have been the Greeks.

The curves of Aphrodites enticed, smooth marble ravishing,
the chiseling, the polishing, the chiseling, the polishing.

Pergamum’s lecherous satyrs were his validation. Ogling
Poussin’s Sabines, Ingres’ seductive Odalisques, came to mind.

Do not romanticize his violence. Did he go directly
from art to her condo? Was there a knife, a pistol, a fist,

a powerful grip around her neck? Witness her tally of bruises,
her horrific array of hues, the garish photo flash, the swabs,

his sticky violation, her kit, her kit, her kit. Dear woman,
I regret a paucity of beauty, a dearth of aesthetics.

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