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Shari Caplan: Lee Miller on The Female (Gaze)

June 7, 2020 by PBQ Leave a Comment

Don’t! melt until I’ve lit you.

Covered to the neck. A sheet to morph you, size the shine on your
 – don’t!

face.

Now, topless

in the metal chair, like an uncorked bottle. Cross
                    at the elbows, look down at the ants.

Don’t –
              cavort until I’ve snapped. We’ll have some when he’s over. Come under. An object

could fall on top of you at any moment. It might be          a person.

Tar stretches like a bird’s foot. Maybe life’s a nude

              picnic, then the tar comes in with the tide and I’m dyed

blue, wearing a net. I can take my own
                                        pictures, thank you. I can deal with some glare.

If you’re thinking,
 it’s not my place    to guess what. Maybe this  dead coral you’re posing with 

puts your father in your head. Maybe a dead
              pillow or a case packed. Hide it    

behind your face.

Filed Under: Issue 100, Poetry 100 Tagged With: Shari Caplan

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