Mastectomy Muse

Terror, because every image signifies. 


My bald navel, outlined 
onto an infertile, perfect blackness. 

Me and you. 

Your night lens snaps 
my back, on a bridge, 
in a bath, when you peel 
me back. Inspect the skin. 


You sewed affection onto me, 
scab-like, sucky tendrils wrapping 
around your inky needle. 

Your printed collection of me, 
forensic jewels, dusty pornography 
reflecting an archived sensation. 

An irretrievable canvas. 


I would like to reside in colour with you: 
Long lip of sea awning across the coast. 
sinuous light leaking, golden as time, 
bouncing off the water. 
Pinkish haze. An aroma of pale hot flesh. Fleshy 

Tentacle emerges, rapid, into tall grass. 
Shuffling intolerably toward me, seizing – 
reminding. 

You are no longer attracted to me. 
And this isn’t working. 

I would like to go on 
under flat dissolving heaven, mouths blueberry sweetened; admiring your marble curves; 
posing for your masterworks; decoding the mystery of your body. 

But I am dragging at your feet, stone-heavy. Waiting. Rhymeless. 

The ink has run dry. 
And you are now imageless.