Ex-Galatea

I have carved out the curve of your head

in wood, in sand, in stone

with rigid curls and sloping strands.

I have shaped the structure of your skull.

I t has taken me years deep in coffee grounds

waking from dreams to find in the sheets

the contours of your face folded tight.

The hang of curtains tied and pulled

have formed your silhoette in shadow

and in the garden grows

a topiary trimmed to fit your shape.

I have carved out the curve of you

with knife, with hand, with thought--

the back of your head on the train

with no return ticket.

Hey Cleo

You lie by the sea

like a sarcophagus

hands folded across your chest

with all your worldly goods scattered

at your feet in tribute.

The gold of your skin sits solid-

it frames your face in heavy light.

All still and silent

the ocean waits for you to wake.

I settle into the sand thinking

it would be no good to be alone

in the eternal secondlife.

pardon the pun.

The first flight fell

all light and air with no strength

no core with which to stab at

the greedy grip of gravity.

I will not make that mistake again

to fly is not to float, to drift, to dream.

It is to take in one hand the heart

and with all its beating power thrust

into the imperturbable sky.

No waxen wings then will do.

I shall weld myself a weapon

a pointed shaft by which to drill

into unyielding blue and having driving deep

emerge triumphant and engorged

with all the wealth of air unfurled beneath me.

With iron bar and steeled accord then,

I will strike into the sky.

It is, after all, man's Wright to fly.

Without Comfort

We are both pregnant

but on you it sits heavy

pulling the jowls of your face

into a mournful caricature

and swelling your large hands

into overripe fruit, close to bursting

Your belly does not sway with your thickened thighs

but sags like concrete on a muddy hill.

When you lift your feet

it is a reluctant charge, a duty preferred forgotten

and your mouth lays closed

lays like the earth under snow that will not melt

We are both pregnant

but you have slept through the dark

and seem to carry only despair.

Ignite

To find you

cropped short, ungrowing

but stretched like wax

across the long couch

is to see a candle with no wick

all potential and no power

a cloud that cannot rain.

You move like thunder

with eye flashes to herald noise

but all the time distant.

I pour water, dig deep

but you wait like that holy vine

the mistletoe that grows on air

my platitudes and pleasures do not reach you.

Poured like wax across the silk

you will not melt nor burn

but only bend around me

till I am the thread caught fire

and at last we conflagrate.

Chapel

It is hard to get paint to sit

the way air does directly after sunset:

A lover who, once alone, lets down

the curtain of her hair

and becomes an open stream

a current pulling to nowhere

but beyond, always beyond.

To do so demands patience

the right mind to mold the blues

and the desire for darkness

with all the warmth in women's wrists

hot skin with the life beating beneath it

It's hard to do

but somehow Rothko manages.