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| Statuesque Fragility |
I dreamt of a woman
who I saw naked,
but not with the naked eye.
I have seen Medusas
dressed to kill me
but not with the naked eye.
I have seen Medusas
dressed to kill me
(unsuccessfully)
with their stilettoed knives
strutting out from underneath
their dull pencil skirts.
with their stilettoed knives
strutting out from underneath
their dull pencil skirts.
As my eye spied
in their house of love,
I longed for the nakedly real
this woman made me feel,
so much more than those
so much more than those
lazy landed lovers
desiring to swim within
the frozen pools
of my unattainable eyes.
of my unattainable eyes.
I dreamt of a woman
who could swim
late at night under
the temptest theater lights
who could swim
late at night under
the temptest theater lights
in her swoon shaped pool,
as her sailing suited suitors
untied themselves
from their masts (at last),
howling at the moon
for her full fathom five,
six, seven, eight ...
sinking down for the count
they lie, below her
they lie, below her
moist surface tension:
staring them blind.
I dreamt of a woman
who had a story to tell,
of what it took to sell
her statuesque fragility
to those rich enough
to know better:
she could be neither
sought, caught, nor bought.
They remain her bottom
feeders, eating the
Nymphaeaceae
of this thoroughly
unreachable creature.
Sources
Anaïs Nin. A Spy In The House Of Love. Penguin, 1973.
Jackson Pollock. Full Fathom Five, 1947. MoMA.
