Modern Art
She writes differently with an engagement ring on,
the glow of her finger puncturing the keystrokes from
laptop to screen, from mind to visual word, reworked;

she is inamorata,
love making with a slow kind
of rushing, a strange kind of
realism -

she used to spend her time creating
modernism, reworking thought, exposing
herself on the darkest of street corners or
turning every light in the house on, unafraid
of being seen, now she spends her hours sucking
her tongue inward trying to remember
his aftertaste, trying to keep the specter of him
touching her outside of her mind, reenacting
out of body experiences in the bedroom,
lost in finding herself whole,
normal, and inarticulate.

The poem does not come, though
she births it like a child from throat to
womb, holds it to her breast,
lets it run wild, and waits.