At the Museum of Modern Art

by Keetje Kuipers
Kuipers. The Keys to the Jail. At the Museum of Modern Art
They say the modern condition is one of isolation, and if I'm anything, I'm modern. That must be why missing you feels so inauthentic. Even in the pastel glow of a Diebenkorn, I can't forget that I belong alone. Unlike the homeless couple, curled together under a yellow blanket in the doorway of the Chinese bakery each night, I hate the intimacy we share. But if I can imagine these solitary pictures removed from their frames and pressed together in a kind of awkward kiss, and if the photograph of a woman naked on a park bench were to reveal the figure perched beside her, a hand resting on her breast just above that scuttling heart, then I can say this: Come home. Help me find a way.