Christine Chiosi: Observant
You seem intent to just keep staring.
At my lips.
like some dumb artist who’s creating.
Don’t linger there.
This wine-stained gloss is just for fun –
to lift appearance, conceal what’s dull.
Like an orangutan’s bright ass.
Study something deeper.
Look past my lips, past pointed teeth.
Past sanguine tongue, gyrating over words
like a belly dancer’s hips.
Steer your gaze into my throat –
the shady, full expanse of night.
Float inside – eyes riding deep
within the hull of your fine craft.
When you arrive at halfway down,
pause at the throb beside that rubber nub
which is my heart. It pounds –
a noble fist – at your male presence.
Trying to bang its way into
a nearby tube of fleshy pink
descending to my gut.
Could it grow arms, my heart
would reach around your body sliding past.
Squeeze you – eye to helpless toe.
Leave you breathless as a mole
caught in the bellows of a snake.
than you have ever known.
And pleading, low, for an emergence.
To know me at my core,
you’ve got to travel awful places.
But you’re outside. Dabbing at your palate.
You’re licking chops at fantasy.
You haven’t noticed anything.
For instance -- why is my hair,
by every root,
standing its guard?
Why these beads along my neck?
Not the pearls and silver knots.
The beads of sweat.
They either want, or they abhor you.
Can you detect a musk –
the heated lambs wool of my sweater?
If you’d rather just be swallowed,
why not say so?
I’ve lost all patience with your old artistic bent.
Your watercolor wash, when I was lost,
had poorly served me.
Now, it’s paling fast against the white.
Give me your thick and certain brushstrokes!
- quadrangled oil, heaped into drifts.
A wide black line of silhouette.
Light that slopes, effortlessly.
Paint me one fantastic empty corner!
Or shrunken man who walks alone
within green landscapes. I crave
a sudden swirl, knifed deftly in.
One that cuts me to the bone.
Why not construct some kind of frame
that’s altogether unexpected?
Break in The Louvre after it’s closed.
Suspend your portrait there.
Hang it on a stucco wall –
one that’s tinted red.
Or hang yourself.
That I might notice.
Tags: Christine Chiosi, Contributors 87, Poetry, Poetry 87