Self-portrait as Caravaggio

At nineteen I turned myself into a god:

All muscle and sinew, flesh vital as grapes.

I would play the sybarite’s protracted tune

on my boys, my gardenias, my goblets.

Now so many things desert me.

I am a puckered version of my former self,

and this boy considers me with distaste,

forehead furrowed deep, afraid

to get too close. I lay him on cool cloths,

expose one brown nipple, a slim triangle

of chest. But his throat wouldn’t open

even if bitten by a lizard. He’s not

one for coy gestures: a shoulder thrust

in contrapposto, eyebrows arched

like bows. Tempt him with apricots and ripe

cherries, gold ducats and wine. Press him

to accordion and lute. What would be

the point? Body is a dead end. Obscene.

I give him disembodied, then. My head

on a salver. Let that be absolution,

ponderous in the muddy light.

Let the open mouth speak of the body’s

inability to hold on to anything it loves,

except to keep asking for more.

More goblets, more gardenias, more

bare-chested boys in ruffled shirts.