Fig. 1.
As Rodin | a nude soldier stripped of classical myth | we love
a scandal | thrust at the viewer | in the middle
of Salon de Paris | leaning on a spear
suppressed | imagine The Age of Bronze
being fashioned for eighteen months | room for two
let me pose for you | place my right hand on my crown
to expose my ribs | insert your fingers feel for rawness and doubt
strike with gore | in bloom debris
flung | between your toes | define as you | please don’t mind the yelling
this is good | demand to see proof with a hammer clink bruised
I’m convinced God sighed into my nostrils | he questioned
the smooth-surfaced classical flattening independence of light
on a cheek | found depth | a thick pulse to grip | injected life
into stone | a torso pivoting grotesque | you’ve watched me struggle out of bed
artist’s touch left intact | I’ve traced the lines of the tattoos
on your back | while you fingered the notches of my spine