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Sleeping with Rene Magritte.

Wouldn't we love to see that which we know is hiding from us?
 --Magritte
   Because he was not you, he seemed amazed by my nakedness.
   Threw back his head and cried, Ooh-la-la!
      when my nightgown slid to the floor.
  Filled with the torrid air of his admiration, my breasts began
  to swell and expand-- a performance
      for the source of their awakening--
  until my whole body grew cartoonish, statuesque, like
Baudelaire's
  giantess grafted with Betty Boop, like a device in love
      with its own detonation,
  I pitched a white flag and braced myself for the pleasure
  appetite takes in satiation. Ooh-la-la-la!
  Afterward, with his head on my American stomach and his hand
  wrapped around my right tit we'd stare into the dove-
      shaped mirror on the ceiling
  while he chanted somewhere between laughter and tears, This is not a
breast
.
  This is not a breast.
  I admit I loved him like that, taut and urgent, famished and rewired
  by repetition, the way he looked on the new moon,
      pacing the yard in a house coat,
  with a rifle under his arm and the whites of his eyes aglow,
  like a deranged Pepe Le Pew searching for a shit-perfumed girl.
  If it's true that everything-- cloud and curtain, motor and iron
railing,
  even the mattress in the alley
with busted springs--
      conceals something unknown
  and therefore perfect, then isn't each discovery its own undoing?
  As in the night you tied my wrists to the bedposts with twine--
  my soft-core strain--my need,
you said--urgent,
      naive, to tear the skin's seal,
  dislodge the deep image--a bowler hat or a birdcage embedded in the
vein.
  What you didn't say: Disclosure is a double-bind
. As in: You must love me.
  Still, you were mesmerized that bald second
      before the blood began--
  the raw skin--pale and organ pink, like two pearled secrets you said
  I could never keep.
  In the morning, the scabs burned like some outlaw underworld
  against the bone china and the Belgian waffles
      drowned in whipped butter.
  It stung in the shower when the soap dripped down my arm, stung
  we stood on the roof watching the weather gather like the hem of
  a dress we trip over and back into ourselves. 
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Author:Candito, Kara
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2010
Words:428
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