A twelve-inch copy, bronze,
gift from the man I married,
set on mahogany shelves
in our cleanest room,
the place I love to dust,
fingering some oval frames,
the glass-blown peacock,
one latticed ivory comb.
This Thursday morning with
lambswool and lemon spray
I tend to my statue, its swells
and hollows, its bare limbs —
shoulders and elbows, three knees
in relief, four embedded feet.
It is always the last thing
I take hold of, pull closer,
weigh in my hands, imagine as
the size of life. How many wives
realize that dust comes from
the skin a body loses? Here
we still are, he and I, spouses
who go about our lives, who
desire and part, part and desire,
touching what we love,
and thus The Kiss — their lips
meeting the flesh we shed.
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ABOUT THIS POEM
This poem was inspired by the statue The Kiss by Auguste Rodin (1840-1917). A small copy of the statue is kept in our home. This poem was one of 14 poems and 14 photographs accepted for the curated group exhibition Be Mine at the Alliance Gallery (Narrowsburg, NY) from January 31 through February 14, 2009. The poem was published first in the paper program of that exhibition.
SOUND & SENSE
My goal when composing any poem is to craft a passage of spoken language in which sound is at least as alluring as sense. For a longer discussion, read the comment beneath this blog entry.
FACT & FICTION
This poem is mostly fact. For a longer discussion, read the comment beneath this blog entry.
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