Brassai I

self-portrait: george brassai

Brassai I

by Jessica Goody      

Reclining nude,

Supine

Charcoal shadows

A bare torso

Arching taut.

The narrow pit

Of the navel a cavern,

A black hole

In the galaxy of your frame.

Breasts rolling like eyes,

Nipples glaring;

Bands of light stretch across your abdomen.

Armpits and pelvis lined in black

As though streaked with tar.

The line bisecting your body

From breast bone to uterine point

As though a white-gloved

Surgeon is standing

Out of frame, ready

To press down

With the silver arrow of his scalpel,

Drawing blood darker than any shadow.

The portrait of your

Sinewy, bare expanse of skin

Lying helpless as a suicide risk

Strapped to a stretcher, a velvet chaise lounge,

Stylishly accessorized

With leather bands;

Not so much a fashion statement

As a tool of self-preservation.

I can imagine

Your silvery skin

Peeled back, pinned in place

Like a biology-class vivisection,

Flesh butterflied

And anchored with hypodermic-sharp

Nails from Jesus’ cross.

Your bones,

Pearl-white and gleaming in bas-relief,

Like black-light posters

In a crack house,

Like Limoges

Glowing in grandmother’s teak hutch.

Not a photograph

Or a French postcard

a la Bellocq’s cathouse nudes,

as an x-ray

glowing on a neon screen.

~ first published in Cyclamens and Swords

Defining Moments

digital art: ralph murre

Defining Moments

by Jessica Goody

These are the things I am made of:

the cupboard of dishes

accrued by each successive generation:

the monogrammed wedding glasses;

soup plates at every Seder

fiesta-festive with color,

wreathed with exotically plumed birds.

The kitchen table scarred with age,

paint rubbed off by shoulders

long slouched against aged seat backs.

And my rainbow mug, the purple stripe fading

from each sore-throat tea and honey,

each winter cocoa, each cup of

homemade chicken soup.

These are the things I am made of:

afghans crocheted by three generations

in many different houses.

The carved wooden Moses

bearing staff and sandals,

carefully traveled from Israel.

The wedding menorah,

clumps of wax dug from candleabra stems

with dutiful scrutiny;

cocktail toothpicks and aluminum foil.

The ritual as familiar, if not as revered

as the candle-lighting itself.

The old cookbooks,

Grandmother’s, Great-Grandmother’s,

both maternal and paternal,

wedding gifts for setting up house.

Book jackets fraying and torn,

pages brown and cracked

as the old hands who turned them,

stained with succulence

from favorite recipes.

The grand piano, a Steinway,

gone now, admired and ignored,

ivories chipped, lacquer scratched

by four generations,

to whom a respect for music

came more readily

than a talent for playing it.

These are the things I am made of:

the photo albums from before my time,

the adhesive pages brittle and no longer sticky;

the label-tape peeling off.     

The rank saltiness

of the Atlantic at high tide;

and gnarled trees with tumorous roots,

their withered knotholes like dried fruit.

~ first published in Cyclamens and Swords