For Ruth Gordon

Up north the stars shoot from the gut. Some claim it’s Perseus’s nether region that does it. I look at it, and look at it, and look at it some more. Some call this star gazing. The temperature goes down. I feel the zero on my toes. I make a wish. With my eyes closed. So it can’t be gazing that does it. Make it true. I know it. With my eyes closed I focus on my breath. My breath in art. Perseus may be well endowed, but it’s his navel I’m interested in. It smells like dark chocolate made with cardamom seeds. I have them on my tongue. The seeds. Their smell is the smell of our mixed blood. It comes out of my nostrils. I exhale - - - Your shirt goes up. I breathe into your navel. You’re waiting for my touch. Your whole body aches with memory and desire. I touch you, and you swoon. I touch you again. Your eyes open, and you swear on the stars that I am It. Not the stoning Medusa, but the other one. The secret one. The one with the trumpet, whose blow is a Gorgoneion apotropaic gaze that turns stone into a starring touch. You saw it. You felt it. You loved it. You want it. The foursome crystal constellation.


Søren said…
Oh, such power!

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