by Mark Taksa
Imagining the taste of her pears,
I entertain the naked girl with a story
about a bird that lands by a window,
balances on one foot, and carries a flame
in the other claw. Her smile is the chiseled ice
of the president’s lips. Love, I urge,
is a painter who brushes a fire into a cold thing.
She yanks her coat over her shoulder, proves
love is more than artful brushing.
If you are a lover of the body,
you will recognize that sting I feel,
which I felt in some other city
on some other afternoon, when I drove
by a biker, and that sting pushed my eye
to an opening under her dress.
My future is the amount of my mouth
on the naked girl’s pear. I tilt my arms
like wings and push out my words, hoping
to compose a fable the nude craves
as I balance on one foot.
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