Woman Posing as Bell Pepper

 After Edward Weston’s photograph “Pepper No. 30”

Laurel Benjamin

This is the part where I remove my skirt, shirt, and everything else.
Curl hands over shoulders, squinch my knees until my shoulders

collapse, until my buttocks separate a little, backbone reaching
and over, my head invisible. I say, That’s how you want me, right?

Wound into nothing, wrinkles, and if you look closely, almost
fungus, mold, signs of cell vegetable growth. And there’s you,

my love, and the easel, sticky smell of oil, your lips pursed
as you whistle between strokes. I’m just gonna add some shine.

But I’m not here anymore, think of one hike we took, skinny
trail running up a series of small falls called cataracts,

passing ferns and bigleaf maple, oak and huckleberry, and a couple
yelling at each other words we couldn’t understand except one—

Fuck, her eyes bulging. Now I’m alert, back under your paintbrush,
liquid pouring over me, hair clumping like dreadlocks. I separate

groups of strands, then grab the ends and tuck them into
my mouth, sucking. This is a kind of forced meditation,

I give you no expression, no shine from light—
keeping still, letting go, a bend to the mirror of self.

Laurel Benjamin is a San Francisco Bay Area poet, active with the Women’s Poetry Salon. She curates Ekphrastic Writers and is a reader for Common Ground Review. Publications: Pirene’s Fountain, Lily Poetry Review, Cider Press Review, Taos Journal of Poetry, Mom Egg Review, Gone Lawn, Nixes Mate. She received an Honorable Mention for the Ruben Rose Memorial Poetry Competition. Laurel holds an MFA from Mills College. She invented a secret language with her brother. Her new collection, Flowers on a Train, is forthcoming from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions. Find her at: https://www.laurelbenjamin.com

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