Look once: and it’s her fingers that pull you in
the absence of them, how they’ve disappeared
within her, splitting her body like reeds
at the river’s lips. Bantu Knotted American
Queen, pedestaled at the top of the canvas.
Spill of red paint, blue drip of stars
pooling the foot of the nation.
Look again: not a clit
but a book that occupies the hand
and you smile at how easy it is
to mistake one pleasure for another
membrane for membrane
twin yearnings for the flesh-spit of knowledge
for after all, to know (in the biblical sense)
is to let the sweet waters run
down down the slope
the purple mountains.
Stare until the painting becomes a mirror
until you are sixteen again in your room
with Jimi Hendrix plastered on the wall
like a saint. You are clutching a book
blotting the ink with your sweaty palms
shoving the words into your mouth
practicing, repeating, drilling an American accent
sloughing the saltwater off your tongue
speaking yourself into disappearance.
And you would have disappeared
were it not for the pussy’s pages
how turning them lit the tunnel into
yourself, to the books that could only be read
in salt and seaweed, and the touch that made you
crave your own dark scent. What tiny stars you
are, spilling.