androgene contrapposto II

by Shoshana T. Daniel

once or twice we went
sunbathing, me with my
shirt off, spilling gingerale
down my neck and chest,
and you fell asleep, hair
sprayed between your arm and cheek,
and damp;
and the wind thrashed blossoms
from the ornamental trees
and flung them curled,
moist against my legs.

that was before the man in the suit
came. The man in the suit came
across the field and stood
with ants crawling up his shiny back
shoes and the grass in shred on the soles
and said, "I wonder
if you would put your shirt on,
there are children who walk through
here, in fact one of my sons
has seen you, so would you
put your shirt on."

"he lies," I said, "see here,
all these red-white marks
across my breasts?" (he looked away.)
"when I hear voices, I roll over.
I lie on my stomach.
they can look at my back all
they want. that's all.
just my back." and my legs
with the beautiful black-gold hair,
opaque as any good stockings.

the man in the suit goes home.
tonight I'll be his dinner guest,
sprawled and wanton on
the kitchen table
one hand between y legs,
one on a breast,
leering at his wife who
pauses, momentarily
then puts another saucer in the sink.

later I'll hear I danced,
naked, on his front lawn.

but first you woke, cold wind
on your neck, and gathered
the textbooks, the towels,
the gingerale, brushed the grass
from the wrinkles of your elbows.
I reclaimed my teeshirt
from the sticky ground,
stuffed it past my shoulders to my shorts
and tucked it in; and you went home.

and I went to work; where
I took off my shirt again, standing
in a clay-stale studio
with terrazzo floors and five
legally but not completely
blind sculptors,
and very bright lights for hours
and they complained they couldn't
see my hips. So I unzipped my jeans
but they said, "no, it's much too cold,
it's much too chill, you musn't,
you'll get pneumonia, we'll do your hips
next week."

this week I am
the winged victory of samothrace.
their putty is absurd compared
to what I see: shoulders malachite;
legs, the wings
and no armature.
"I like this more than paint," one says,
because with sculpture I can feel
if your breasts are the right size."

my breasts are the right size
an in the right place
and when I check later they are
still there, when after supper and tea
the earnest photographer stops by
and after photos of my hands
requests "not cheesecake," (blushes)
but if you'd just-"
his film is black and white and
his shutter is just as fast
as the tic above his lip.
he would prefer I'd dress before
I answer the door.

but if you could see
what happens in the mirror
when I am
bent to my own stance,
rattan round my bones,
sweat trembling down my ribs:

sandalwood, rust; copper
faced on hips the white of garlic,
lucent white
and I am the androgene contrapposto

and the smell of sawdust, twine.