MUSE GIACALONE

Le Sein

Two crosses stuck on breasts that bounce up,
Then down,
Faster,
And so suddenly,
Shiver.

Two crosses stuck on breasts that bounce up,
It’s the sweat that makes them stick,
Like toes in hot weather;
Nasty.

Two crosses stuck on breasts that bounce up,
When mid-day heat seeps through clothes
And our faith becomes exhausted.

Two crosses stuck on breasts that bounce up:
The pores sizzle.

The Red Party

We are two on a couch, in a full house.
The wallpaper is red and velvet.

There are slurs of red light
Shaking out of a projector.

People move in waves.
They sway, so slow, then crash up
Against themselves
And their eyes burn white
With pleasure.

Around us, it smells of loud skies,
Burnt wood and
Red.

I break our silence:

“Are you bleeding?”

Because, yes,
A camelia is trembling on your lip.
It seeps
Right out of you.

“You are bleeding!”

The camelia wets and smudges your cheek.
It crawls down your chin
And then,
Lets itself drip.

There is a pause, a hum,
Before I lift a hand to hold,
In a red grasp,
Your neck.

The blood on the crease of your lip
Blooms
When we lean inward
And fall
Onto each other.

The red spreads
To my lip.
We meet, a second time.

You say, in a breath:
“J’ai mal..”

You are in pain.
The cut is deeper.
The camelia is flaming, I think I can see it
Beginning to burst.

We are fighting to stop the redness
From leaking out of your lips.

I take a napkin and wipe your mouth,
Then mine.

I swallowed the camelia up
With a swipe.

Across a Canvas

I creep,
Then wait
Upon the bed, as bait,
And keep hands about the knee
Like a person in a painting
Positioned,
A statue,
Too patient
And so, damned
Impatient.

He creeps,
Underneath
Grabs and tugs and slaps
Until muffled things emerge
From the black rubber
Between our lips.
It continues and we scream now
Like we are having
A very,
Ugly, tantrum.

We creep,
And howl, like big dogs unleashed
Into fields of meat.
So when the final crashing call
Dies
There seems to be a pair of eyes,
Behind my eyes,
That play, like a film still as it twitches,
The sex,
Across a canvas.

 

Muse Giacalone is French-American and was born in Harlem, NYC where she developed her love of language and the interchangeability between French and English. She is currently studying at Goldsmiths College in South East London as an English Literature and Creative Writing BA. This is the first time her poems have been published and shared but more of her works can be found on musegiacalone.wixsite.com/musegiacalone