“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.“ – Allen Ginsberg
My love, suddenly your hip is the curve of the wineglass filled to the brim, your breast is the cluster, your hair the light of alcohol, your nipples, the grapes your navel pure seal stamped on your barrel of a belly, and your love the cascade of unquenchable wine, the brightness that falls on my…
Renoir, Degas, Cézanne, Seurat, all the greats of the western canon, the major dudes of high art, have obsessed over the woman “after the bath”; a private, vulnerable moment of domesticity and femininity endlessly reproduced in paint through the male gaze.
I am the storm.
“It’s the way you look at me,” he whispered. “The way you look into me. You’re so calm and warm but there’s something else there, something under the surface. That flicker in your eyes, like lightning. It’s primal. You’re primal. Queen of the forest, I want you to hunt me, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
She’s on speakerphone and we are laughing and chatting as I fiddle with an editing app on my phone, cropping the picture she’s just sent me. “Are you done editing it? Show me! You should call it ‘A Little Slice of Heaven’ because that’s what it is.”