Monday, October 19, 2009
A Bird And A Fish
There is the way you look at me,
Then how I look at you.
Though maybe ‘look’ is the wrong word—
I drink you, I devour you.
I don’t care about your mantras
That are actually my own, too.
The oppression in objectification is not so
Important just now—with you in the room,
Feminism is as dead as Franz Ferdinand.
I wonder how I look to you.
Do my arms move like that, with such grace?
Can any piece of me hold a beauty
Even distantly related to yours?
Would I fit in your embrace, or are we
A bird and a fish?
Is there a way to sustain hope
I run my eyes over your perfection
Like any old lecher, and figure
There must be.