Pelvis IV

When I started painting the pelvis bones I was most interested in the holes in the bones—what

I saw through them. Georgia O’Keeffe, 1962

Through the tender bone

you only see a gaping hole,

point out just how hollow

this pelvis is—so full of sky,

the moon phasing,

slipping away each time

you look and fail to see

the composition—I don’t think

the daydream is useless;

the fairy wren’s the wisest:

it spends all its time

being a bird. I could spend

all my time watching it

because I’m a poet—you forget

what a curtain is to a window

slid over a hundred thousand bees,

gold and undulating

above the dam,

the orange reflection of clear dusk

on the distant gulf.

You say “blue blob—”

you say “I’ve painted

better pictures of my ass cheek.”

Ok, you win. It’s an empty pelvic bone.

I lay back on your chest,

let the weight of your hand rest

over my heart—our breathing

slows with the fading embers.

I concede to let the desert be dry,

stop throwing glasses of water

as though it will become a forest.

After all, the desert is where

this pelvic bone

was plucked and lifted

to the sky as a vessel.