Blue Nude
                                                                                                        by
                                                                                            Daniel E. Blackston

Your skin is copper but I see the sky in you.
I set the pose, but can't control
the curves of your lips' blood-fire, 
the arch of your eyebrows
like dangerous slashes of night,
and below, a hush of silk and fur
laid bare to studio lights, your chin reared
to show a wisp of baby-fat,
just enough to whisper innocence.
My camera flashes, amazed at the silver pillow
behind you, the moon-glare I gambled
would make you look like an angel,
and won. Your nails lazily graze,
like the smallest red daggers,
delicate spaces on your shoulders
and thighs: a tigress melted
to loving submission, a gold chain
thin as wire circling the palest
part of you, that hammock
of moonlight where your two-piece
bottom scarred you almond, 
a punishment for body-kissing the sun.
Two same slashes cream the soft
hills of your chest, mounds of brown
sand crowned by black cherries,
where I would taste you first
and wait for your teeth in my shoulder,
suck in your jasmine, your musk
and stare into sapphire, watching
the cotton and lace that once hid you
shine empty on the floor.

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