Chris Bakka


Here the blue woman, painted wood
and breasts that retain their shape perpetually,
germ on each nipple from the fingers of the
boys who want to experience what itís like;

she is curved, hands perched on slender waist
an accent to the wideness of the hips.
Her fingers are fine, delicate. I imagine them engaged
in the twisting of lace in earnest, touching the rails
of some balcony

waiting for her mannequin with the red coat
of house paint to take hold of her heart.

But this is me, and there is no heart in sawdust,
no syncopating tick, no drummer in atrium
and ventricle all air.

She is the woman in effigy, raw,
the rudiment wife.

The boys call out to her. She is
a slut, they say, and itís true. Her
pelvic bone has seen all of their
fingers, grazing the space where
there is everything in nothing,
some mystery.

Where the ruby fruit jungle,
mankindís great cunt?

Why the face?

No mouth to eat their still small
erections, no throat to thrash
with the pulse of the gag.

My eyes wander from her feet,
dainty, up the slope of the legs
to the point of penetration.

Some boy has got a drill bit
and is carving out a hole.

Originally from Texas, Chris Bakka is currently pursuing a Bachelor's degree in Creative Writing and theatre at Knox College in Illinois.

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