Her Breast are Perfect

Originally published in Interim 2009

On the left I write an epic and on the curve of the right; a haiku. On her belly I build a city whose streets teem with peacocks, their thousand eyes watch over her. Between her legs I make a bed, I build a subway; I build a pyre that lights the city I have built on her belly. On her back I project old silent movies; the flickering light makes her tremble. Her right arm is a snake that climbs up my spine; awakes me from sleep. Her left arm is a tree that reaches into the earth to placate the dead. Each foot is a bird that hovers over my head, as I hold her wrist down to the white fields of the bed. She is between my legs, she takes me into her mouth; I lie back like a ship in a building storm. I become the crescendo of operas, a breath hovering. My body is a long sigh of silence, like the migrating monarch butterflies paralyzed by uncommon winds that rain down on the streets of Tehran. The sun warms us and we take hesitant flight. There, a man with a pinhole camera takes our photograph that he wires to the top of the Eiffel Tower. We are two electric eels entwined like the filament of a lamp, lighting all of Paris.


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