by Francine DuBois
For Jesse, who once said I looked like Eva Braun
Adolf Hitler always wanted to go back,
To trace those heavy black outlines
On his starving-artist, pastel-hued watercolors.
He was constantly afraid that someone wouldn't get it,
That someone would misconstrue his paintings
As Impressionism or that god-awful Expressionism
That was all the rage in backwards Weimar.
Yes, on this 30th afternoon in April, he felt
Momentarily peaceful because he was Austrian, not German.
Everyone seemed to forget that about him; it was just
Another thing he wanted to chisel in his portrait
With a palatte knife. Maybe he could make that known
When he made his mustache even scarier and bristly
Like those French paintbrushes he loved so much.
He could never bear to do a self-portrait though: too much
Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
Introspection, not enough glory. Eva was always telling him to
Color his eyes like Belgian skies, but he only remembered the
Atmosphere filled with dirt and darkness, not Aryan blue.
He told Eva they'd be like Rembrandt later. She smiled,
Assuming he'd paint that picture of his mom sewing,
Haloed in candlelight. He meant they'd be dead.
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