Melanie McCabe
LATE SEDUCTION
I paint on old canvas; the masters knew
this trick of thrift. I smudge what gains no
glisten from remaining clear, eclipse when
I can’t ignite. Pare, whittle what yields,
but plump what still draws: lips pouting
a gyre, breasts arranged on a display shelf
of underwire. The tongue abides, sibilant
as ever in its wise tree. I let it beguile.
My mind I coax to somersaults across
a green lawn. We rollick on the level,
avoid slopes. When weary, I persist. I twist
what’s dark and straight to labyrinths.
With what is left of breath, I fill balloons
to tie in bunches that jostle and catch the eye.
I court applause. If it dwindles, I know to improvise:
Juggle. Twirl. Fling—to any or every wind.