After “Violett,” a lithograph by Vasily Kandinsky (1923)
When you and I misalign,
We’ll be sitting on the sculpture of ourselves,
Eating plums to paint our insides
Purple, purple, purple—
Cored out through the center, pits removed,
Rolling beneath our feet. Is this body
Canvas or ceramic? Nothingness or nothing left?
Your thigh curves beneath my hand like
A sigh released by a housekeeper at noon,
Her broom leaning against the knifeless
Kitchen counter. There’s nothing sharp here,
Not after she’s mopped away the kisses
And you and I have found ourselves in the drain,
Saying, “Oh, look, we’re blue,” I’ve read that
Purple is the off-blue, the kind that happens
When we’re trying to escape, but we just
End up in sealed varnish. Sex behind
A glass case. The exhibition title:
In the mornings after, I draw letter openers
On your back because, my god, I could read
Your ribcage, bones rising to say, “Yes, I love you.
No, I don’t really know you.” Yes. No. Yes. No.
It’s the finishing signature, so stunning,
And by the time we stand up, we’ll both be so, so tired.