Present (A tribute to Marina Abramovic)

He is water,
she impassioned fire;

feverish on red sheets, she balances
an orange on her chest.

Her fans sleep on pavements;
she slips into a second skin

then takes the chair,
peels each face like a fruit,

slowly drinks the bitter juice
of every unprepared tear

of every inelegant soul; then
he, that willing worker,

provocateur & lover,
takes one more step towards her;

she, still faithful to their cause,
leans across the table/structure,

takes the hands
that marked the present off her wall.

Together yet alone, she opens
to the moment, to familiar

sweet applause, while papers fall,
decry her work as whoredom,

yet barriers & borders all dissolve;
she’s always loved it, loved the world,

feels we are her blood, her ritual,
the space between her fingers,

senses us the tumbling air, the earth,
her phantom mother,

faithful house, man & woman,
Archers, Pointers to her Star.