* * * * *
Body's Harvest --
( after the painting" Harvest" by H Magritte)
When morning falls onto the bed
and the warmth of your body melts
the sky on one leg, a sun-tongue
slithers up your thighs, leaves pink saliva
on your belly and breasts. I open the curtains,
let light harvest you, make sheaves of wheat
and grass with your skin. On your face, flushed
by dream-memory, a smile lingers, traverses
my entire body, weighs on my eyelids with
rainbowed desire. The room becomes an
Autumn field: crisp air and thick sperm as
I walk to your green waking.
-------
Whole Day's Mirror ---
In the morning
the young woman licks
sleep away from plum lips,
the tip of her tongue
crawls the contours
of a smile
reflected in
smooth mirror -
In the afternoon
she brushes a shadow
of powder glow on cheekbones,
with sharpened lip liner
she curves up
mouth corners
in a smile flaming
sun- flooded mirror.
In the evening
the woman artfully combs
curls on the temples to frame
mascara-thick lashes,
adds two strata
of peach lipstick,
dare not smile
for fear the mirror cracks.
At night
she squints at her face,
finds make-up fusses all details
in clownish distortions.
She washes the mask away,
nibbles pale lips,
smiles acceptance
at quicksilver wrinkles
in the mirror -
-------
To an Impudent Muse
I gave you gifts
gilded thoughts
around your wrists and neck
so that I'd hear you
jingle and chime
while moving to me
fingertips on a flute --
notes from Mount Helicon
dripping into my pores
I laid a water mattress
added rubber balls
so we'd float and roll
feel the frisks as if baby lizards
played on our skin
and let you bite my neck
suck my blood
as I dug to reach
the uncut diamonds of your eyes
But you left me with
your last gift --
an inkless pen with no refill
and are wrapping yourself
around another' s turgid mind
I have unleashed my dogs
they will sniff my smell on
your smooth thighs
drag you back to me
you or one of your
whore sisters
------------
Because I still have hope
I don't care about your hand stretched
towards me with bitten slice of pizza,
runny cheese dangling from brown crust.
I have forgotten the taste of food out
of the oven, can't pull the ring of a can
and dip my nose in gusts of foam.
No use trying to read my face. It's worn
out leather cover over pages erased
by the night wind on concrete pavements.
My voice has grown thin, a squeak
of mice in mind's trap, though I hear
echoes of blasts from past foghorns.
I don't care about your furtive glance as
my stick fishes in the trash bin, hooks
treasures discarded by full stomachs.
I could tell you I still have hope, find it
wrapped in greasy paper with chunks
of meat, dust and flat beer in twisted cans.
But I don't care.
* * *
(c) Paula Grenside 2000
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