Tamara Bašić
the sculptor
at the break of dawn, as sunlight stretches slowly
over the coasts of your body, I begin to run.
I gather precious metal in every corner of your ocean,
my personal gold rush spanning six thousand miles
before I become the sculptor, your glimmering figure my
magnum opus. ten silver-dusted fingertips tread slowly
over the bridge of your nose, as if afraid to disturb the
arches of your brows from their peaceful slumber.
when you wake, you’ll search for me with a half-lidded
gaze, fingers catching nothing but air in the space where
I lay, still warm; for now, you’re still in sleep’s embrace
and I’m placing blue topaz and emeralds in your eyes,
knowing that gemstones and gold and marble will never
do justice to the man touched by old gods and ancient stars.
in porcelain, I carve a smile and melt gold across your lips,
pressing shimmering fingers to a spot you kiss each night
on my chest. like this, we’re trapped somewhere halfway
between rococo and romanticism, halfway between devotion
and despair; if life imitates art, does this mean you’ll stay my
greatest achievement? does it mean you’ll kiss me forever?
at the death of dawn, as sunlight scorches a stray
speck of gold on my heart, I run back to you.
over the coasts of your body, I begin to run.
I gather precious metal in every corner of your ocean,
my personal gold rush spanning six thousand miles
before I become the sculptor, your glimmering figure my
magnum opus. ten silver-dusted fingertips tread slowly
over the bridge of your nose, as if afraid to disturb the
arches of your brows from their peaceful slumber.
when you wake, you’ll search for me with a half-lidded
gaze, fingers catching nothing but air in the space where
I lay, still warm; for now, you’re still in sleep’s embrace
and I’m placing blue topaz and emeralds in your eyes,
knowing that gemstones and gold and marble will never
do justice to the man touched by old gods and ancient stars.
in porcelain, I carve a smile and melt gold across your lips,
pressing shimmering fingers to a spot you kiss each night
on my chest. like this, we’re trapped somewhere halfway
between rococo and romanticism, halfway between devotion
and despair; if life imitates art, does this mean you’ll stay my
greatest achievement? does it mean you’ll kiss me forever?
at the death of dawn, as sunlight scorches a stray
speck of gold on my heart, I run back to you.
Biography
|
Tamara Bašić (she/her) lives in Croatia, where she is frequently trying to pluck gorgeous sentences from her thoughts and write them down. Her writing and photography have been featured in fifth wheel press, Jupiter Review, Moss Puppy Magazine, celestite poetry, Stanchion, and elsewhere. You can follow her on Twitter and Instagram (@authortamarab), and more of her work can be found at authortamarab.wordpress.com
|
