This is an answer of sorts to a Sophia Blackwell poem

MAPPLETHORPE TO SMITH

I passed from life. You wept. In death we’re slow
as a bad phonecall buzzing on the line.
I was your muse of sorts as you were mine
along with dicks and flowers. I still know

that much. I have a sense of light and shade
that stays with me. Absence is hard to bear
simply not knowing what’s no longer there.
Heaven and hell is judging what I made

if I remember. You in that white shirt
boy girl I should have fucked more than I did.
It’s all the printing. That’s my skill that hid
so many flaws. I could make piles of dirt

look like a Rembrandt. Beauty’s in the grain
I’m past. Flickers of images remain.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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