on picasso’s BLUE NUDE
Pablo Pablo Pablo
your girl folds herself with so much precision;
she really knows what it is to do so and how thick her outline is
how easily distinct from her somber surroundings but she is made of the same stuff
as those surroundings
she sleeps above my bed with her back turned from my dreaming body
a goddess of the sadness whose face we’ll never know
she soaks in blue something curving in time
a fire curling down her spine over rivers intersecting
but really Pablo you’ve just thrown her together with some blue world and
all we know is the nothingness of her and of all that surrounds her
does she speak from beneath her swollen arms?
does she sigh as I do?
does she cry out to be dressed by your aching blue-stained palms,
to be addressed again by the cool thickness of your wet brush against her back?
she sleeps for you, our sullen nude.
this goddess is no mammal-woman; her only hair entwines behind her
and there are signs in her shadows, deep set eyes and
wrinkles and pieces of faces her friends in the dark
her naked shell is wrapped in the blue faces of her
silent, scheming portraitmates.
or is she kissing another dark-haired water-nymph behind that arm?
she floats atop beds of silent waters and the human sun rubs his tongue
on the small little cape of her neck,
thick block blue-bare woman alive with sadness.