Poetry
Your face,
eight feet by nine
on sanded willow,
could devour me.
I am caught up
in the breadth
of your lips,
in the pigments
chosen to depict
your skin.
I have been standing
here for hours,
simply staring,
when the museum steward
pauses on a tour,
says “She always
find admirers.”
I imagine you.
You are kissing all the statues
in the Louvre. You interject
between dying Arria
and concerned Paetus,
between the knife and the breast,
and you plant your lips on hers.
You kiss bearded burly
Herakles, the dark cheek
of bronze Adonis. You warm
huddled L’Hiver with your breath,
kiss the head of the lion biting
Milon de Crotone upon the thigh.
You kiss agile Mercury,
you kiss brooding Mars,
you kiss even the wounded deer,
the hunting dog’s teeth,
the hand of the Genius
that clutches the knife.