Apr
26
Pollock Paints the Confessional
Filed Under poetry
There was the name I stole from you
and took with me all the way from
California, from Texas, to my wrist
like lavender oil, breathing
behind this picture window
in deep Ellington chords
There was the lie I told about my beauty
and how I held the lie up to myself
in the folded mirror like a swath, a bangle
for your perceived need and mine wounded
redemption spinning out a skein of strenuous
black calligraphy, oceanesque in
thick forgiveness
Then, of course, I covet. And I kill.
Covet the wonder reeling as delicate as
tiny spindles of branches, hard
as unrequited, soft as a mouth. I kill
reason and sense. Have buried them
with no remorse. Kissed their picture and
crossed myself, your myrrh on my fingertips.
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