Tall Woman II[1]

I could only love a dead woman.

In death, women know the extremes of beauty.

·

My love spent thousands of years by the pond

starving, malnourished, withering away.

When I found her she was gaunt and deformed.

Her limbs stretched forever into the pool—

reaching for the final absolution,

bony fingers grabbing for some fresh fish.

Groping for a school no human had yet discovered,

still pure— without chemicals coursing its veins,

she slowly grew weak and weary.

Unable to find such schools—

every fish she plucked, already toxic—

she consumed nothing.

Her breasts fell lopsided.

Her flesh paled to a pasty white.

When I found her, long dead, I loved her.

·

Living women refuse to struggle for their ideals,

for such beautiful inhuman perfection.

I could never love a living woman.

---

[1] Throughout the entire writing process of this poem, I was staring at an image of Tall Woman II, the sculpture by Alberto Giacometti. Let that affect your reading as it may.

Mirrored

I would often, oh so often, lay my head softly against your glass back. I would sometimes watch myself still but mostly I tried not to. This is how we were in love. You would sometimes shift, or worse, tremble, in your sleep and I was sure that you would shatter against my stiff cheek. Somehow, you never did and we felt a stronger love. But slowly, throughout the years, you stopped shaking and at first I imagined that was good but eventually I could not deny that it only meant that you were less alive. And when I took the chance, and gazed at myself, I too was gaunt and fragile, obviously dying. But still, we lay together every night and somehow that seemed lifelike. When you died I didn’t feel right telling people that I was shocked, that you seemed so healthy, or that I didn’t see it coming. But, of course, I did say those words and they obligatorily sympathized with me, acting as if they didn’t see your fate mirrored in me as well.