VAN GOGH IMMERSIVE

I carry a washed blue sky on my shoulders.

The room I walk out of, a sea of excesses. 

Robustious fangs burst off sunflower petals, 

fields of wheat sway, their arrogance golden.

A starry night drops down, licking feet and floor.

Symmetries capsize in an over-hued maze. 

Vincent glowers. His psychedelic self portrait 

examines you assessing his work.

Hastily you turn. From romantic river scenes,

auburn autumns, the cerulean resolve of seascapes. 

A farm woman's face arrests you.

How much sadness did the artist drink 

before spilling it into her eyes? 

That line on her nose, a sharp stroke of light 

or the sun searing her skin?

 

Your feet shift, unsettled. There, in 

the next frame the peasant woman joins

her comrades to dine on a meal of potatoes 

they dug out. The neon glow overhead 

can't hide the dark huddle they stoop into, 

its earthy warmth encasing them. 

Moths around a bulb. 

The immersive air hangs heavy on my body. 

I leave the sea-room, drenched, drowning. 

At the curio shop outside, folks queue up

for a piece of Vincent on their chests, ears, arms. 

I pick up a tote. 

Almond blossoms float against a turquoise sky.

It lands on my shoulder and lifts me, saves me. 

From the sinking ground where the potatoes grew,

the turbulent oceans of Vincent's mind, 

the jagged edges of his pines,

I rise and float. 

The blossoms on the tote look like they'll disperse. 

The sky stays.