Art Critic At the Beach by Genna Gardini

Genna Gardini | Mar 30th, 2009 | poetry | No Comments

This seawood is just spool.

It’s green and long as a projector’s tongue. And the rock it’s on
seems plastic-knifed. Debowled, like an old VHS. It doesn’t work for me.

But then, suddenly, the sea arrives and edits the scene out, awkwardly
washing towards, replacing. I have my suspicions about the whole thing

and scan the horizon for junior curators. And parking.

Down a ways, my girlfriend plays at the tide while I find some paper
to put this on. She kneels and welcomes the water:

I think she’s sure I’m writing about her now, her body angled
so I may describe the ocean as it fleshes fresh her every part.
Is she checking if I missed that? It’s no problem, she can restart.

She raises her hand to a wave, the reception of her face stopped,
her arm stick and familiar (she beaming “Aerial!” I scribbling “Mop.”)
I’m fairly certain she’s not noticed the condom tangling near her slop.

I’ll wait for her to walk back.


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