A Myth in Reverse

poetry by Clare Ace

A Myth in Reverse

I can say

“I’m just not interested”

but that is not quite right.

 

It would be easier to give

obvious examples –

Todd Chavez, Sherlock –

and accept your recognition

(cheers to the importance

of representation).

Two for a tiny whole.

How much work they do.

 

Why do you paint yourself with make up?

Why do you make yourself beautiful?

“I like to be around beautiful things,

and I am around myself all of the time.”

 

When I say

“My celebrity crush

is Tom Hiddleston,”

I also mean to say

“My celebrity crush

is Monet’s Waterlilies.”

 

“You wouldn’t fuck a painting, would you?”

I ask, to help you half-understand,

because my answer is that I would rather

fuck a painting than a person.

 

Give me a reversed Pygmalion

and turn him to stone under my hips

or let me paint myself into waterlilies.

Let a god hang my print in his dorm-room

and lie back on the thin twin bed

thinking of blending colors

as his hand breaches his waistband.

Let the camera pan to the curtains,

they’ve seduced you before

on familiar silver screens.

 

“Who mourns for Adonais?”

asks the Star Trek title card.

 

“I do,”

I say to Roddenberry’s utopia

of primary colors

inclusive diversity

and foreign, recognizable worlds.

 

I do.

Clare Ace exists in that moment of transition between nightmare and dream. She enjoys losing herself while hiking up mountains and finding herself at the top.

Clare Ace

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