Still Life with a Hundred Crucifixions
I
never talked to men
after
sex, just got dressed
and
left, but he asked me to stay,
naked
like that on the bed—
even
after we’d gotten off,
toweled
off—so I stayed,
though
I was afraid to see him
as a
person: his face tired
in
the lamplight, suddenly older
than
his on-line pic. He pulled
a
book from the shelf: Jesus
on
every page, rendered in oil
from
other centuries, hungry
and
sad, scrawny and hammered
to
different-sized crosses, or thrown—
full
color—in a tomb.
What is that shade of blue? Look
at the detail in the hands.
He
took my hand, placed it
on
each slick image:
How did the painter make his eyes
look like that?
What makes someone’s eyes look
like that?
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