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.
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