after Yasumasa Morimura
After strapping the tits to my narrow chest
and pulling the famous hair over my scalp,
I talk to Marilyn about loving Art, playing
dumb blonde, being typecast as one thing.
She answers, with a toss of her head,
her nipples erect as the stalk of a fruit,
Grab me. I demur. Out of politeness
or fear or disbelief. She takes my hands
by the wrists, presses them between her
thighs. Now we can talk about anything.