by Francisco Marquez

Hanging horse meat, red tendrils dripping
     at David’s feet, Goliath defeated.

The light is never right, is it?
     I can hold a mirror up to you,

have you watch your eyes blink at me,
     little muse, slippery body like a fish—

I want to see the arrows of Saint Sebastian
     coming out of your ribs and shimmering.

Your skin could break this empire
     like an oyster on a cracked obsidian dish,

it’s insides spilling by the fire.
     Il mio Caravaggino—why are you here?

What are you doing, standing there
     handing me these oils, boiling gold

in a bottle with crumbled eggshell?
     Let’s slap our hands together and feel it all

fading: my elephant leather, and you
     kicking inside a glossy womb.