May Day

“I want to be possessed,” she tells me
with something like hope
glistening in her eyes.
“I do too,” I whisper,
half to her
half to myself—
and it is an elaborate dance
     made all too simple
by forgetting—
in a painting
     only her eyes
          mouth
          labia
          navel
     would be accurately described
everything else
     would be gauzy
lost
     or lies.