Paul Gauguin’s The Siesta

Who could sleep in such heat?
For the women who arrange
themselves under the shade
of the veranda, that is
the question.  Each one poses
in a different direction. 
They could be sisters,
except one, back-turned, refuses
to doff her hat, as if the shade, too,
is too much for her head. 
She somehow knows that to look
at them is to view tropical
fish swimming in a large aquarium. 
Even down to the way they dress—
magenta, vermilion, plum—frilly gems
plucked from the coral reef.
Their thoughts swim in circles
even now.  One lies on the floor
boards, elbows planted in a pillow
on which she cannot rest her head.
She can hear the soft gurgle
of the aerator, breathing
like a sleeper deep in the waters
of sleep.  Two others lean over their
own crossed legs, pressing open
the pages of a book, dreaming of oceans
rolling out the carpet of undulating
blue, thick as air and as sweet
as the fruit ripening within
the basket by their feet.     

Deborah H. Doolittle