Lost in the massive Picasso exhibit,
which filled the entire New York Museum of Modern Art,
searching for more faces like the African mask
from Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.
Where did it come from?
Where did it go?
Nothing like it in the nearby paintings,
either before or after.
And so, through the exhibit, on a hunt
for inspiration and evolution,
faces shattering around me,
and bodies, and guitars, and furniture,
everything broken into planes and pieces,
similar to the surfaces of the mask,
but never quite matching it.
Finally, I rounded a corner, and faced
the immensity of Guernica,
taking up an entire wall,
shattered images of shattered lives.
I stopped. Took in the horror.
Forgot my search,
was ready to leave.