Jean-Paul Belmondo
It begins with your face of a stone
where lips repose like two seals
in a coastal mist of cigarette smoke
you move through the streets –
listing them
is as useless as naming waves.
(That city is so handsome for a reason –
it was made out of your rib)
It continues with my
skidmarked-by-a-dress
body. I stand on the border
on heels like my sixth toes
and show you
where to park.
That very night
lying together
in the dog’s yard
– flowers are biting my back! –
you whisper:
the longer I look on the coins of your nipples –
the clearer I see the Queen’s profile.
For you, body and money are the same
as the chicken and the egg.
The metaphor of “a woman’s purse”
escapes you.
Stealing, you like to mumble:
a purse is a purse is a purse is a purse.
Also:
a real purse in your hand is worth
two metaphorical purses over your mouth.
They tell me
you are a body
anchored to the shore by its rusting blood.
Your wound darkens on your chest like a crow.
I tell them – as agreed – that you are my youth.
An apple that bit into me to forget its own knowledge.
Death hands you every new day like a golden coin.
As the bribe grows
it gets harder to turn it down.
Your heart of gold gets heavier to carry.
Your hands know that a car has a waist
and a gun – a lobe.
You take me where the river once lifted its skirts
and God, abashed with that view,
ordered to cover that shame with a city.
Its dance square
shrank by the darkness to the size
of a sleeping infant’s slightly open mouth.
I cannot tell between beggars’ stretched hands
and dogs’ dripping tongues.
You cannot tell between legs –
mine – tables’ – chairs’ – others’.
That dance square is a cage
where accordions grin at dismembered violin torsos.
Beggars lick thin air off their lips.
Women whirling in salsa slash you
across the chest with the blades
of their skirts soiled with peonies.
