life in excess
by Grace McGovern after François Boucher
the woman’s corset constricts,
creates a new spine, new ribs.
you’ve interrupted her,
but she doesn’t mind.
cheeks bloom red,
the simulation of blood.
the shine of her lips,
as though she just bit down
on a peach. even her
bathroom is beautiful,
dripping with woman.
the rise of a pinky.
how it stands alone.
mess of people. tangled limbs
lap over each other
and they have become one
writhing ball of fleshy pink.
your finger sinks in
as it would in dough.
how this scene smells
just as sweet.
wet clay beneath your nose.
gathered roses, snipped clean
at the head. the girl dreams
awake, moon-white
head nestled in her palm.
the boy is drawn, bee
to flower, moth
to flame, fly
to rotting meat.
rabbits and birds slain
at the lovers’ feet.
no blood. red cushions
them, hints.
softness, baby soft. nursery
pinks and blues. the feel
of freshly washed sheets sliding
over your thigh. we are all
children, plump and floating
cherubs watch on in curiosity,
bubbles of spit and giggles.
the feathers of their wings
float to the dirt, stepped on
over and over and over