" Sappho and the Painter "
Last night, I couldn’t sleep
for watching you paint me,
the whorls of hair on your wrists,
electric.
They will wonder if we are the same.
They will gather feathers for my flight
off the abyss. I have letters
from the maid of Icarus—we know
how that recklessness ended.
She waited in the sea-foam below
his feet, content in their promises to meet.
Promises are sea shells spent
in a raging sea. I am no less
a woman for falling
in love with a soul,
be it phallus or delta.
Pleasure is pleasure, simply put.
Wise Circe and her swine-men.
I take a flower to my lips to taste honey.
Have you ever licked your fingers after
devouring a peach? Whether the juice
running down your chin is fruit
or your own—pleasure
is pleasure, I repeat.
My painter captures me perfectly, but for that—
my orchid-black eyes, my love-sleep forest fur,
the mystery will always be:
is my love a he,
or a woman like me.
© 2003 Lauriette (Laurie Byro)
|
|
