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Exquisite Corpses

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.

from Silver RosesFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Poems Rachel Wetzsteon

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