Sunday, December 23, 2012

The Museum of Love


Egyptian women keep their men aligned;
They only see the light.

Greek women carry wine upon their heads
Sanctified naked, faces veiled, to naked men.

The mask the Dogon warrior wears, the spirit
With the biggest eyes, she rides alongside bearing wings.

The Hindu temple prostitute, who will dance the universe
In and out of its existence - she always has enormous breasts.

The blue Madonnas of fierceness and grace, more muses
Than mothers, consorts than queens, stare through the void like strippers.

The white Taras have seen it all, and give back pure compassion
As perfect as their curves, but they have no name or form for what to do.

These not-quite-human figures turn ... to the Ethereal Female in bronze,
Winged victories on chandeliers, angels and dragons of the hearthscreens

Before it’s just a pretty girl again, almost as beautiful as the women
Visiting the museum, who get none of the adoration:

No amethyst necklace or jeweled crown, no magic purple in the marble
Says their name; shame only calls to them from the stone.

But you, my love, become the soul of every face
Although you hide your own in hues of blue,

I recognize you in everything I see, every woman
I will pierce through for your secret.

I must use your eyes to wear your mitre,
Touch the way you feel to share your white glove

Love. As winter falls I breathe as you and taste your lips. When
Times Square spells “FOREVER” in pink I see - everywhere - your face.