Do you too paint calla lilies
their white cowls opening
to flagrant spikes of inflorescence
smeared yellow with pollen
and to the applause of green leaves
abundance carried by dark
people crowding forward
threatening to exit the canvas?
Do you too paint workers bent over metal
wheels, levers, and conveyer belts
manufacturing part after part
deaf in the rattle and whir
nameless in the steel
intestines of a crowded canvas?
Does big Diego have any breath left
after he climbs the stairs
walks the veranda to your room?
Does his stomach rumble
as he settles himself above you?
Do you lie still on the flat surface
as the peony of his sex
startles the gray air?
Or, kept rigid by the board
supporting your back
do you shift wing to wing
a shipwrecked angel roped
to a lucky find of flotsam?
After he touches you, does he close
the shutters heavily hinged
on landscape after landscape?
Copyright 1998, Ann Spiers
Ann Spiersí collections of poems include The Herodotus Poems (Brooding Heron, 1989) and Tide Turn (May Day Press, 1996). She co-founded The Seattle Review, teaches creative writing, and writes freelance magazine and newspaper articles.
Thematic Contents / Vol. 3, No. 2
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