I’m Rodin’s Thinker—Le Poète—
beside you, full of scotch and silent curses
on the steps of Columbia’s Low Library
(between the columned facade). I am crying
a Fare-You-Well brushstroke. You are
dying, no longer the Juicy Fruit of any
young boy’s eyes, no Blake’s Lily in my
poems. You aren’t going to pirouette on
your toes for me tonight, be anyone’s
pop-bottle in the orchestra or balconies.
Maybe you smell like burnt toast, calcified
old socks, your nosey parrot in his cage.
“I’m all bones,” you say (too raspy), as if,
if, your fate is peeling away—not only from
your peachy smile and the honey-eyes of your
once ever-swelling delights, but from every
ode I’ve ever recited to you. I’m discombobulated,
breathless. I see Elysian Blue, crave Winston
oils, my easel. They can keep my MFA. If only
I’ll awaken. Or you. Let me paint you once
again: Geisha Girl—with dangling obi belt,
opal-topped hairpins, open-toe sandals.
Forget the biopsy, the body-to-heart-to-body
blood flow. Yellow ochre here, scarlet there.
Hyacinths in your hair, in each iris. I’ll feed
you Angel Cake stepping down, lead you to
taste and colors–to the turmeric, freshly-oiled
Harley I’ll name after you. On our seat, you can
curl around me: salty tears, ribs, tulle, veil.
Your feet in the foot-pegs, I’ll rev the engine,
twist the throttle. I’ll wave a hundred bristle
brushes in the air (stroking maniacally) as
we speed off. First, suffocating wind. Stone
pebbles, debris, white lines, furies flying.
Unnameable and starlit cloudbursts whipping
us while I capture your body, fill it out,
make you picture-perfect to the very end.
Isaac Black (an MFA graduate of Vermont College) has published in journals like the Beloit Poetry Journal, Poetry Quarterly, and Boston Literary Magazine. He’s been a Pushcart nominee, and recipient of poetry fellowships from the New York State Creative Artists Service Program (CAPS) and New York Foundation of the Arts.
Categories: Poetry, Themed, Unfortunately I can't love you
Tags: e-zine, ezine, Geisha Girl's Night Out, hyperbole, longing, melancholy, melancholy hyperbole, poem, poet, poetry, submit, unfortunately I can't love you
Melancholy Hyperbole 
I enjoyed your poem. So vivid! You may not remember me. We both were caseworkers for NYC back in 1968-69.
I am glad to know that you are doing well in your field. I became a visual artist. Hope all is well with you and your family.
Best wishes,
Frances