Venus de Jesus

with oxygen present, the fuel in our bellies and the sparks between our

thighs we could set this whole god-forsaken city afire and burn it to the ground

 . . . if we wanted to



and it's 8:45 in the a.m.     and it's way too fucking cold out     and
 
I'm on my way to see you, in the stifled breath of this tunnel
 
on the train to see you     with plans to visit the Mütter
  
and I'm sitting behind this woman--this living, breathing, lurching

Quasimodo-woman 

no HuMP

but just as shocking: her skull a lump    of dark shadows   extra-fleshy 

near the eyes     bulging and set apart from the rest of her 

	like the stalks attached to the beady-black retinas of 

spicy summer soft-shelled crabs 

her face    



was like the awkwardness in seeing a lower case e next to an UPPER CASE:

               (Ee) 

once you stare at it too long     but I didn't have to stare at her
 
for very long at all     her chubby fingers, like those of an H addict, 

tugged at something wrapped    in thin butcher paper 

o v e r f l o w i n g with shredded lettuce onions peppers tomatoes pickles

 
some miscellaneous meat product 

and reeking of mayonnaise 

and if the smell of what she was eating didn't get to me, 

picturing her eating it did--her mouth a 

crooked hollow     connected 

to a crooked accordion 

of something     pink     bloody and 

churning 

in 

her caruncular     corrugated  and

twisted

innards.    And I felt sick.



I ran off that train     quickly     when I'd reached my     stop

and sought out the open . . . and you: hopefully with oxygen present. 





10:45 in the a.m.     and the rain is thick    lulling     

dull and     oppressive     we hold clammy hands, we hum songs 

and blow our noses between terse sentences in the museum, 

decked 

from wall to wall with genetic anomalies and 

disfigured 

unborn 

fetuses     and I thought of that woman     and I thought of us--two

quintessential gay beauties about town--and I wondered 

what we'd look like in ten years or so     if we weren't careful



it reminded me of that time back when we went to the Barnes Foundation

where on the wall (quite appropriately)     next to a Modigliani 

there were two armless Jesuses,

sans crucifix,

and I remember     saying to you: 

"no peace for the wicked/no rest for the good" and you replied:

"no wonder he let so many of us slip between his fingers"



humid train ride to my place     silence pressing     a heavy torso down

around us     around



2:39 in the p.m.--that odd time     in the middle of the day     in the middle

of the week     where everything . . . . s l o w s   d o w n 

after lunch after coffee after smothering under pillows 

with fresh stains 	on bed sheets and stale cigarettes     and I try to hold onto you 

so tight     but my rigid limbs splayed in sharp angles go numb     palms

sticky sweaty and imbedded uncomfortably    in your hair. 



though I wouldn't    I felt this overwhelming urge to kiss you later

when you struggled a disproportionate arm forward     and had just

barely tapped 

the metal front door knob     with your fingertips.



(I sigh--a long, slow, easy breath . . .

sometimes after you've left--when I finally open the windows 

to this stiffled room.)

• Chy Ryan Spain

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