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Isabella on the Ocean

by Bob Arcania

& you need to stop writing about me. I do not follow time because
you do. I am not interesting, nor interested in your interpretations.
I exist a black fly on your tongue, a rolling tongue, it is like a worm
and I will never be the soil. There will be no love here. I will die
young; not because of a misstep, but from how you bore me.

Bore into me with your soft flesh—I am not asking—& maybe in the
morning I will tell you these secrets brimming with boiled dew. You
cling like I am a blade of crabgrass and I am not.

I am Sahara legs and deepened sun lips & somewhere there is a dark
pit for you to enter like tendered cattle, but I will never let you know
where. Tell him I'm not really sorry & I passed away two nights ago in
my rusted age. Tell him tiny natures to make him sleep better. This isn't
really about him anyway.

03/03/2008

Author's Note: There is a tiny cricket and he sings songs for her that she can't hear.

inspired by the portrait of Isabella Rossellini by Robert Wilson

Posted on 03/03/2008
Copyright © 2022 Bob Arcania

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Aaron Blair on 03/04/08 at 09:27 AM

I couldn't have, because I think you said it better than I ever could have, and you're probably a lot more talented that I am, but I feel like I could have written this. About more than one person, even.

Posted by LK Barrett on 03/10/08 at 03:29 PM

captures the magnetic, intricate self-absorption of the pre-Raphaelites, a sweet and irresistable nastiness puddling on the tongue, a pomegranite bursting with uncountable rubies of disdain...

Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 03/13/08 at 04:06 PM

Cool.

Posted by Steve Baba on 11/29/08 at 04:39 AM

Excellent imagery. Really liked the metaphors you used.

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