ONE BY ONE (1 X 1)

Collaboration with Karl Parker

 

Bronze become driftwood become

a massive, hollow, intertwisted horse:

to be carried then ridden, leg-stiltled high

diagonal of the body—memory of wind

over a cool marble floor, of holding onto

something you can't name—in a museum

in Washington, where it's 110, and today.

If you stripped it bare—pressure of time on form

as ever—it would be red and quick, a pinprick

opening of flesh. What we gather weathers,

the taste of it happens slower, hot on your tongue,

purer, purposeless, thick. The beast that became

you in thinner air, or that you became the beast

grooved, grey twists of its open neck

in that moment arc up, and over, and down. You

drank your own as we passed, human clusters

with cameras and eyepieces. This is what it means

to love, arranging a now—return the body

to the body—and a then, skin of your skin,

that never actually occurs. Bone of your bone,

let the beast go on, as nerved herds shuffle

without you, free as it has to be, to come

and go.

One

(after Susan Rothenberg's 1 x 1)

 

To be carried then ridden

This is what you offer

 

The diagonal of the body

memory of wind

 

Of holding on

to something you can't name

 

If you stripped it bare

It would be red

 

and quick, a pinprick

opening of flesh

 

The taste of it

hot on your tongue

 

The beast that became you

or that you became the beast

 

in that moment

and you drank your own

 

This is what it means to love

Return the body

 

to the body

Skin of your skin

 

Bone of your bone

Let the beast go on

 

Without you

as it has to be

 

 

 
 

Krefeld Project, Bedroom #6

(after painting of the same title, Eric Fischl)

 

Someone has drawn the curtains.

This is what should not be seen:

Midnight, the tangle of parts

 

The knot of arms and legs locked

hilly city flicker

an electric candelabra

 

We press ourselves against

hotel mattress and move across

each other as shadows

 

More bodies to throw on the grave

or sculpt into stone. You turn

the key in this fable

 

Actually instead of rather

the mechanical mechanism

of insertion

 

The plastic wait

for the green light

and we call it ours

 

and you feel ok about all of this

Symmetry. Your skin makes sense.

I hear the ice machine

 

and lights buzz, traffic below.

I know there is more

In another room you are

 

turning pages.

The hum of letters and shapes

strange forms, we kiss

 

sometimes, then,

I curse you.

 

 

 

© Carly Sachs 2006.