Cupite, Capite

My body is made

not to dance, not to run, not to
stride slinkily in
low rise
tight thighs
stretchy seams
compromise

there is me
renaissance muse
loose hair-crowned
sweet pink-lipped
white round-shouldered
small soft-breasted
dip satin-waisted
smooth curve-hipped
lenient thigh
flesh fit for seizing

(those artists always painted us caught, almost, a finger indenting skin and no more)

there is me
writer's muse
darkened places brought to light, the
short bare-nailed
rough dry-ankled
green knee-bruised
short loud-laughed
wild fierce-gazed
dark stiff-haired
poor low-frown
tongue stuck out
ecstasy on a soft dark pedestal

(there is something here that only poems could catch - a hand to the heart and no more)