THE MYTH OF POSSESSION

after a painting by Joan Bevelaqua

I’m taught what it takes 

to stitch a woman’s spine 

into satin and marvel 

       at the linework as if bones were woven 

       lace. I’m taught composition 

       and framing as if the trees

are ours to shape, as if we can own 

what rests beneath 

our skin—deer skulls sleeping ​

       in ridges of silken snow, our dead 

       on display. I don’t want to know 

       what it means to desire 

if beauty is like this: 

slouched shoulders in 

a dress bolstered by shadows.

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