In Response to Jasper Johns, "Untitled" 1990 (written 2008)

This was written while viewing art at the Greenville Art Museum

Framed in strawberry blonde, the magic begins

In the crinkle of her forehead.

Etched there are memories; her first freckle, a scar from camp

Slipping on wet river rocks, and a furrow carved forever from worry

Over lover #1, lost but not forgotten.

 

Below her thin eyebrows stretch across

Shining hazel eyes that sparkle

Regardless of all they've seen.

Wiry lashes, thick with mascara,

Feel like sweet kisses on my face when

She hold her head close to mine.

 

There is nothing that compares to

Her even breath, rising to breathe

Me in, and out,  hot across my cheek

In her every exhale. Rythmic, slow

Tickles my beard when her eyes move.

 

Lips, fine as the wings of a baby bee

Taste salty as the ocean and hold every

Promise when they part for me, and

Draw me in, deeper still.

 

Heat rests, scarlet, in her

Silken cheeks like plums, juicy ripe.

A stray hair sticks in her dewy sweat

Pinned against her face, wanting to be there

And nowhere else.

 

Graciously before her, I stand

Black like a tumor wanting to settle in

And ravage her, every part.

Everything I hope to be

Rests there, in her eyes, on those

Cheeks, and inside her mouth.

 

She is woman.