after Laura Letinsky’s “Untitled #49”

April’s final Saturday spent circling
museum halls. Photograph of rotting
peaches, shutter-captured intimations—
open mouths, juice-slicked hands, parted
flesh. A knife. That spring I sate myself
on gallery fruit and floating cups, tongue
ekphrastic drafts on dining linen, ticket stubs.  
I become myself a swollen drupe, a robin’s egg, 
tea light tableau, four-yard length of rope,
blue stilled silicon, and Siken Crush, slicked
in something colorless and nectar-sweet.
Make me slip between devour dripping 
down his iron-painted chin as upon my inner
thigh he works the volta with his mouth.