Nude: a beautiful vanity

 
I think she’s the twin of darkness, sister of bitter winters.
her lips were cold upon our first kiss.

what child was this, who played in pristine fields; girl soldier defending
an abandoned truck with long wooden sides, her fortress against
imaginary Huns. what became of the horse she rode into sunsets that
broke like glass dreams, evolved into nights in parked cars, pretending
that love was the direct descendant of oral sex.

when I’m without a woman, I journey where the light has died. I
approached her with the vague charm of poems, & thus she gave me
the offering of herself: object of nude art, a beautiful vanity, indulgently
designed to bring fire to a man’s loins, & to his heart.

I conscripted her to be the Florence Nightingale of my sexual wounds.
she suffers when I invade her most tender mercy with my savage lust;
she suffered when she engraved part of my name on her posterior flesh
with needles.

as I’m locked in her carnal chariot, we ascend to the obscene border of
tranquility, in the ways that a woman knows. at the brink of the coming
storm, it’s the voice of my orgasm that shouts I love you…  the passion
my heart cannot speak.

I hold her but she seeps through my embrace in little pieces, returning to
the grasp of her obsidian incestuous lover. in the sudden gloaming, I see
the luster of her gray eyes, trying to tell me something.

in distant beds, we sleep together  –
we race the moon to a dream…


(Art: F Benveniste)