While Examining a Photo of My Master
The crown sewn unevenly in her bramble
perfect really, the tilt making
us believe in her reality.
Lips like a faucet, for the drink
Laced with jeweled-flowers, red
as her forehead,
red with auspiciousness and the
care of killing
off the non-zero beings. Skin
loose as to sink
into your mouth, to devour the
lumps of surrender.
The brows swerved in an owl-lift
joy, despair, formidable helplessness
– are we here?
it glazens, with the light knocking
as ping-pong would in heaven,
played by a poet.
We need to know, says the nose-eye, lax
for destruction in an instant
– swaying to ease
as we imagine her breath out of
horse-nostrils. I would
love to kiss her cheek not for
the taste, but for the burial
of my face in the angel fluff;
I count myself lucky
as her chin, dipping to nudge
all life to ending
ventricles – we can cast aside all differences. The throne
and I sit, with her, staring kindly
as to know –
it is the eyes that know, she whispers from her ear.