As I Became the Art Object

He was no less a water event than I,
his mouth gaping wide upon mine,
for mine, above mine. The gesso
open, drying to cake as I became
the art object.

My legs found their way apart to
make room for a perfect Greece.
I remember a tree knocking at a
window. Rhythm is its own country
sometimes.

The bare floor must have been hard.
The day must have been a giving
holiday. So I gave the only present
in my possession – a vista.
In the foreground, an infinity pool.

In the distance, the sun finishing,
covering itself as I reached for
my bra knowing all I had given
could not be returned, and for that
I was sorry and unremarkable.

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