As She Silently Poses
From a photo by Vladimir Bazan, at La Louvre, 2011
Excuse me stranger,
as I ask with the most statuesque
of whispers, but will you
touch me? I know the sign
says do not… but I promise,
I won’t tell. Let your finger
fingers trace my marbled
body, I long to remember
how hands would feel.
Your palms electricity
so gently shocks me,
even though my face
is still frozen, you should
see how my sculptured
insides desperately want
to reveal. As your fingerprints
on my skin, tattoo shivers
the most pulsating sensations
like once when I posed
for Michelangelo—before
coating me eternally, but
your fingertips have reawakened
me. More than just a touch,
it’s been so long, even though
I stand her posing motionless
as this hand on my blushing
white chest reflects everything
private, I could never conceal.
Even Before the Bell Rings
From Pierre Dubreuil's 1932 photograph The First Round
He can feel the first punch
on his already bruising face.
Just like in the playground,
during recess and even in
his bedroom, after Pop came
home with Jack Daniels all
over his breath, ready for one
last shot, this boxer had his
gloves up ready, trying
to protect from his white
knuckle fist heavy-weighted
beating. This boxer can still
imagine that aroma of whiskey,
with an aftertaste that always
reminds him of the Tennessee
two story he is always trying
to outrun but someone keeps swinging
back. He can’t escape the uppercuts
his Pop gave him, so, he fights
back in the ring, trying to withstand
the one thing that keeps him
swinging at night, the one fight
that left him defeated, wanting
to knockout his past, no matter
the opponent, there is only one.
Showering salvation
From a painting by Jah X-El
I hear our slippery
skins slipping.
As my soapy
fingers, reach
finding an opening
moaning closer, I am
already falling, I feel her
lips, once clean, now
dripping, her mouth,
my tongue continues
glowing with her
aftertaste, she rains
on my knees— she can see
through our steam, her lips
whispering, shower me
salvation, watching each drop
drenching in blues
immerse my pruning
body, she leaves
me wanting, I rise
like steam and feel
myself falling,
already, evaporating
closeness, before
she drains me again.
Zelda says, in letters…
reaching with each cursive
sound so forward, connects
from the page, as if her lips
dripping ink, mouthing her
sentence always floors me—
air mailing desires across
so many states, she says,
in between lick stamped
breaths, her letters addressing
my longing, stanzas rhyming,
speak to me alone her words
engage. always claiming
she trembles for my touch,
but I am the one
who’s always trembling.
Wishing she would… Parle Moi, instead
From a 1950 Jacques Verroust photograph of La Vénus de Milo - Louvre Muséum Paris
But all she does is stand there
all statuesque trying to ignore
me so sculptural, as I reach
out in the middle of minuit
all I get back is stone cold
silence. I miss those days
when I would sip vin
and we would laugh
and converse, she
flirting for me for hueres
and hours. Now that I am
dry, all she does is tease
me with silence. I long
to toast her again, I miss
her denude giggles,
and the way she would
always shake her limbs,
and the way she would tease
and wink and cligner,
my Venus was the only one
in here, whoever spoke
back, our le bavardage
would always transcend
I would clutch le bouteille
sipping declarations till
la vieillesse called sunset,
our time together would
go on éternel. I know
what you’re thinking
there were no affaires
drôles, we never kissed,
embrassé or our anything
like that, I miss those hours,
when I wasn’t unseen
alone with my footsteps
looking up beneath her
always treating this copain,
with the most chiseled words,
I miss my invisible friend
grinning with her marble
sourire smile, wishing
she would reawaken,
wishing she would
parle moi— instead.
BIO
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is an LA Poet who is a recent graduate of MFA program at Antioch University in Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and their cat Woody Gold. His poetry has been featured in The Yellow Chair Review, Frontier Poetry, The Wild Word, Lunch Ticket and one of his poems was named the winner of Subterranean Blue Poetry’s 2016 "The Children of Orpheus" Anthology/Contest. You can connect with Adrian on his website: http://www.adrianerne
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