self-portrait: george brassai
Brassai I
by
Jessica Goody
Reclining nude,
Supine
Charcoal shadows
A bare torso
Arching taut.
The narrow pit
Of the navel a cavern,
A black hole
In the galaxy of your frame.
Breasts rolling like eyes,
Nipples glaring;
Bands of light stretch across
your abdomen.
Armpits and pelvis lined in
black
As though streaked with tar.
The line bisecting your body
From breast bone to uterine
point
As though a white-gloved
Surgeon is standing
Out of frame, ready
To press down
With the silver arrow of his
scalpel,
Drawing blood darker than any
shadow.
The portrait of your
Sinewy, bare expanse of skin
Lying helpless as a suicide
risk
Strapped to a stretcher, a
velvet chaise lounge,
Stylishly accessorized
With leather bands;
Not so much a fashion
statement
As a tool of
self-preservation.
I can imagine
Your silvery skin
Peeled back, pinned in place
Like a biology-class
vivisection,
Flesh butterflied
And anchored with
hypodermic-sharp
Nails from Jesus’ cross.
Your bones,
Pearl-white and gleaming in
bas-relief,
Like black-light posters
In a crack house,
Like Limoges
Glowing in grandmother’s teak
hutch.
Not a photograph
Or a French postcard
a la Bellocq’s cathouse
nudes,
as an x-ray
glowing on a neon screen.
~ first published in Cyclamens and Swords
