In this portrait of The Naked Maja by Goya
I’ll replace that naughty duquesa
with a you. And you
will do nicely too, my maharaja.
The gitano curls and the skin a tone
darker than usual because
you’ve just returned from Campeche.
All the same, it’s you raised
with your arms behind your head
staring coyly at me from the motel pillows.
Instead of the erotic breasts,
we’ll have the male eggs to look at
and the pretty sex.
In detail will I labor the down
from belly to the fury of
pubis dark and sweet,
luxury of man-thigh
and coyness of my maja’s eyes.
My velvet and ruffled eye will linger,
precise as brushstrokes,
take pleasure in the looking and look long.
This is how I would paint you.
In the leisure of your lounging.
Both nude and naked to my pleasure.
eye and greedy appetite, my
petty mischief. Let me wonder
at your wordlessness. What
are you thinking when you look like that?
We do not belong one to the other
except now and again intermittently.
Of that infinity, freely
you give yourself to me to take
and I take freely.
This time my subject is
a man with the eyes
of a nagual or a Zapata.
But you can’t see his eyes.
What you get a good view of is his famous backside.
He is painted à la Diego holding calla lilies
in the rich siennas and olives of a native.
He is the one with the sleepy gaze.
My favorite child and centerpiece.
I divulge this information because as favorite
I would like to take my time. But,
he belongs to another, and I own him
borrowed.
When Frida finds out she’ll freak, all hell will break,
the telephone won’t stop fregando.
How could a sister? How?
I’m not sister nor is love now
nor ever will be
politically correct.
I know an artist does what she must do,
and art is a jealous spouse.
You share me with my husband,
and I share you as well
with that otra you call wife.
My life, I don’t mind.
You are a lovely calla.
I do not look to lure you from your life.
Don’t think to pluck me to fidelity.
I love you. You love me.
We need this passion.
Agreed.
Like a Mexican Venus at his toilet,
I put you here with your back to me
and your flat Indian ass. Ay, beauty!
The little angel holding up the mirror
is me, of course, and me
refracted from this poem.
I love you languid like this, a vain
man, and leisurely I love the slim
limbs and slim bones. You’re very
pretty primped and pretty proud as
any man is wont to be. You’re eternally
mine to look at and paint as I see fit.
I can’t quit
you though
time and time again
you quit me.
I can’t quit the looking
though you and I are past
the time of epic wars. Wars
have disunited and united us.
All the same, I look back and looking back
I am reflected in that mirror,
you with your back to me,
me facing backwards. Little
one, I love
you. I can’t forget you.
You can’t forget me.
I won’t let you.