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.