.................................
Monterey Jackie
.................................

1965 and I am posing for Mel Ramos.
He wants to paint me
sitting on a piece of cheese.
He has painted other women like me,
sitting in banana splits,
in the laps of panda bears,
in a bowl of fruit salad,
in a can of Valvoline Motor Oil.

When I arrived at Ramos's studio
on that Saturday afternoon,
he was finishing up a joint and
offered me the last hit.
I accepted -
the beers I drank that morning
had done little to ease me.
I couldn't figure why my nerves wouldn't hold.
I had done this before -
laid taught-titted and pubicly-plucked.
If only there had been more people around,
perhaps someone pouring coffee,
labeling film canisters,
rubbing oil on my genitals
to obtain that just-fucked look.
But it was only Ramos, a canvas,
and two gigantic pieces of styrofoam cheese
with me lounging tensely on top.

Later, when his exhibit opened in New York,
I took my lover to see my likeness hanging upon museum wall.
I stood in front of my portrait for twenty minutes, curious.
Ramos had taken liberty to enlarge my breasts,
add tan lines to my buttocks,
and put a smile on my face.
My lover grew impatient,
asked when we would see the painting of me.
It was as if he read my mind.

 
.................................
Philadelphia
.................................

Our postmodern skyscrapers
shadow seventeenth century stone abodes
the way that a basketball team
rises above preschoolers,

and even smaller,
like pebbles scratched loose
from playground blacktop,
are the inhabitants of the city,

the people whose lives interest me.

Walking through town,
I am a peeping tom
sneaking peeks into a neighborhood window
to see whether the television
illuminates
with the evening news
or The Simpsons,
squinting up into office cubicles
with hope of witnessing
a secret interlude
or a conspiracy.

It is my lover who interrupts
my voyeuring, answers:
no, that kid is not eating ice cream, but a bowl
of mashed potatoes, and
yes, the guy up on the eighth floor, third
window from the left, is shirtless.
Afterwards, he drags me to the bar,
and I find my stories
easily,
as slurred words fall out of mouths
the way that preschoolers emerge at the end of
a jungle gym tunnel.

.................................
Madelaine Sauk
.................................

 
Copyright © Madelaine Sauk
June 1998

...two poems in this room by Mary Keller...

hopi silver
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