Pompeii

The cave wall speaks of a woman: her art was
intercourse. Here, once, she left lovers
to quiet deaths on rocks, stone edges softened,
vestiges of a warmer century. A twisted
bird of prey, a tourist says. But,
you’d almost think the cave wall spoke
of a woman whose art was praying,
back turned to a man, knees bent,
body arched, god-searching. A brave, dying
bird of prayer, she said. Colours, clay, heat,
Pompeii’s countryside melting her body,
the cave wall speaking of a woman whose art was
pleasure; exhalations come a long way, vestiges
of her arched torso, her worship, painted on the wall,
la petite mort in the history of women,
little deaths in the history of survival.