I’m not too surprised to see a Matisse
(his Girl with a Fishbowl) propped up on my chest,
her oval face nested sideways on her forearms,
like an egg that rests en pointe,
lashes as long as the sex of an orchid,
lids half-hiding the eyes
that secretly survey my face.
A daylight hour, stolen
on plaid sheets: short speeches and deep sighs.
Later I remember her thighs, fluted
like champagne glasses, breasts hung
like apples on strong boughs,
two dimples set at the base of her spine
and the tender profusion of feeling in her eyes.
This afternoon she became a bride, needless, spare
except in love, with an infinite supply
of laughter, breasts and hair.
About Michael Salcman:
Michael Salcman, poet, physician and art historian, was chair of neurosurgery at the University of Maryland. Recent poems appear in Alaska Quarterly Review, Hopkins Review, The Hudson Review, New Letters, Ontario Review, and Rhino. Poetry books include The Clock Made of Confetti, nominated for The Poet's Prize, and The Enemy of Good Is Better (Orchises, 2011); Poetry in Medicine, his anthology of classic and contemporary poems on doctors and diseases is forthcoming (Persea Books, 2014).