I was thinking about the buttocks
because the artist has parked them
here, in the middle of the gallery
where there’s no ignoring or getting
around them, despite some festive color
gatherings and trysts of foil and feathers
on nearby walls, not that I understand such
fey elements — Is that Harlequin, discussing
private matters with a rotifer, under moonlight?
I am neither for nor against these works
on paper, I’m trapped by the buttocks is all.
I’m looking back, I’ve fallen behind, it seems
I’ve lost a bet. No matter what Dr. Johnson
may say of the matter, nobody ogles his own,
ergo this plastic peach will have to do,
its two bloodless lobes tame as kittens.
On the other side is a face we don’t see.
Because it is unbearable, our cadaver.