A long day sunk in old ways:
my corpus needs a core, but when
I draw the blinds and strip I find
not pearls, but panic, a voice
telling me for the thousandth time
the sole self drowns in freedom, cries all night.
With what giddy gratitude then
do I hop the A train, descend
to a web of pleasure and duty
where I cannot work alone,
whether watching a double bill or
making exquisite corpses with your son:
he does the head, folds it, passes it,
I trace a torso, he sketches thighs,
I add the feet—and oh my darling
we cannot enter each other’s minds
but our motives hum and work together,
form a whole body when the drawing’s done.
Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.