O sweet boy -
I sit beside myself for hours, tremulous,
words or breath, moist, palms open as if
to say "I am yours."
And I think of you when I see
Khan 's painting — a woman, a man,
her hair twisted in his hand, lilies strewn
a marble floor.
'The Kiss' either beneath the window
or against the wall—
it does not
your tongue slips and I col lapse,
taste confection on the wire.
The flat of my belly, dark hair, poised lip,
and finger— ex posed,
Seated now, along the rail, I shift, bend,
open, like a river to sea and I oh, oh,
the look in your eyes,
the ache of your hand—
I am seamless, sweetened with
each new touch.
Nails shape your back in red, map out where
we have been -
a fetish — dramatic pierce,
swept in a moment, like O'Hara or perhaps
the way Neruda might after a night of
how a woman taught him devotion in spring,
left his hand
ashen against paper.
For you, my dress on the chair,
shadowed in the night, movements, soft,
beneath the crest of your body.
I am brilliant, a silhouette on the backdrop of
Italy, where your storm sweeps me to reverie,
where I am stret ched,
like winter snow.
You brush a curl from my
cheek— your fingers tremble. I could lose
become adrift in your thoughts.
I could escape the heated air, the scent of flesh,
of beauty before me,
to run toward the open sea, where I would
sink transparent on the sand, where my will is no
longer my own.
And as dawn arrives, night slips out
—left are two lovers inside a painting, quiet on
canvas, exhausted and in love.