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I amuse myself with bits
of cellophane, fluff caught
in the weave with the clipart–guitar
strung on the shell of an armadillo,
graphics from Tuesday’s forecast.
I’ve run out of images, used up the erotic
exploits of the gods. Anatomy limits
the possibilities for penetration and thread
is not dear.
A slow week: a piece on pangs
of drowning in black and white, the latest
alien abduction narrative–
though cool space speculums don’t come
across on cloth–a sketch of men astride
inspired by a horse race in Dubai,
and footstool embroidery for William
Satan, a birthday whim
at the suggestion of mutual friends.
It’s easy to succumb to stasis,
savage inaction, shuttle dropped to the floor,
my favorite cagey dodge about
a hole in aboutness when it’s all about
the loom, defunct.
Toy a bit with Billy–I must admit
I like his type, shaving cream daddy
who’ll pick me up, put
my lips to his taut cheekbone. I miss
the odd balance of a body
on another body stretched and resting,
like sleeping on a slight incline
you didn’t sense when you pitched the tent.
Bipeds have it good.
All the talk about erotics
of the visual, but gaze all you like,
this patchwork arrogance remains
inscrutable–yesterday’s scene of legs
over shoulders, diaper-change style.
The last time the tapestry of ravish
actually got seen
was when the women saw the Resurrection,
the tanned ankles of Jesus,
wept on and ringed in their grips,
Jesus on the road to the Emmys, decked out
and strolling between sex and the thought of sex.
There’s still the fans,
the fantasy of a fair share of art in punishment.
Mail from one Wanda who suggests
the buffeted souls in lust
are served up buffet-style with hunks of parmigiana.
of the track star from Mineola Prep who arrives
at last at the Arctic Circle,
strips, and pumps the air with pride.
A woman in Kissimmee says she killed
a giant spider behind her toilet bowl
only to watch in horror while its body released
a thousand offspring,
bitties that poured to the corners while the mama
I weave them in for lack
of better options, tangents, fields of play
to take my mind off the rasp
that sounds, soulless and dry,
when I strum my legs together like a lyre.
BK Fischer was poetry editor at Boston Review. She is the author of St. Rage’s Vault, winner of the 2012 Washington Prize; Mutiny Gallery, winner of the 2011 T. S. Eliot Prize; and Museum Mediations, a critical study. She teaches at the Hudson Valley Writers’ Center.
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