"Art is Consumption,"
reads the placard next to the portrait,
but when I move,
what is suspended before me
does not,
when I move,
the figure on the canvas
remains where he is,
and it is only when I stand still
and stare into both eyes
that I hear bones cracking until
I have to look away.
I read once that
to be loved
makes you feel like
the god of the sea in that second
before his father began to
devour him,
so I know before it happens
that the sea will find me,
alone in this room
with a painting of a man
I do not know,
that the sea will roll in on us and make
of his acrylic flesh
a distilled
landscape onto which all
my desire flees,
that the sea
will leave me with your silence,
the impression of your skin turning
to water when I touch it:
somatic foam,
waves that
pulse and dive
as if in anticipation of this moment
where my longing bloats,
and I feel repulsed by you.
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