Fall 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1992 |

A Dying Art

for Eve The physical's your art: I see The bones inside us all beneath Your skin. You write so burningly It's like Italian on my heart—A love for body raised to art, For poetry in voice, a spark Of knowledge free from shame. Today, I felt ashamed; my bones became External, ugly, bent in ways Italian can't express. I knew My body wasn't art. I knew It hurt. I craved to be untrue, An angel of destruction, bent On finding in the firmament Each lame-winged bird, each dying friend, Each ugliness, if ugliness Exists. You should belong to us, But we're afraid. I'm not depressed— I watch us in the magazines, The body we're imagining, How strangely well the models seem— Compared to them I'm overweight. I'd die to eat Italian food; I want to have my cat de-clawed But then he'd be defenseless. Art, You'd tell me, ready to depart Upon your body's shrieking points For the stars, your baldness breathtaking, Your wings Italian poetry, Is only this: the

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for Eve The physical's your art: I see The bones inside us all beneath Your skin. You write so burningly It's like Italian on my heart—A love for body raised […]

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