Six Caravaggios that searing afternoon.

Our dehydration as marble dripped slick with light

on the statues, the lids of tombs, what eats the flesh

in the afterlife, glinting newborn that autumn.

In a haven of temperature-controlled galleries,

you sutured a future I didn’t want to wear.

It was the first time I noticed. For your photographs,

my lips parted forever against a backdrop of bitter fruit,

Sicilian oranges on my dress to match vitamin-rich paint.

I didn’t let you touch me. Verses lurked in my head.

You took pictures when I wasn’t looking, pretended

you were interested in other details: the dresses

others wore, how carrara marble caves under touch

in the rape of Proserpina, the taking made to appear

a tender act. Home in the evening, you talked to me
while I oiled my face to wash off the rouge.

I like it when the curtains fatten with silence.

When I was in another room, you smeared my pillows

with cologne then left for your flight.

Your motive was to appeal to my animal instincts,

for me to trace your scent and crave you.

The poems returned in a dream, as if they slipped away

for a walk in the cold air while waiting for me to be alone.

They smelled like juniper berries, cedar,

tonka, a souring bouquet.