inspired by the Holocaust paintings of the contemporary Russian artist, Maxim Kantor
She isn't troubled by the way his gaze lists into space;
her eyes are open too. Neither one flutters a muscle.
Her face could be his mirror. The same
sallowed skin, same tough contusion
of sorrow in the stare. Two chiseled skulls
under hats of hair. Her fork tine fingers,
grip the sagging horsemeat of his shoulder.
Which one is stronger? Which one older?
Both have lived too long to light erotic pleasure
from the flat fuse of their lips.
His hands are large arthritic spiders, knuckles bent.
Neither one becomes aroused.
They simply press each other's mouths.
They have survived like this.