ON OUR LAST VACATION IN PROVENCE

ON OUR LAST VACATION IN PROVENCE
Rod Peckman
 
That tender age, his hands on a book by De Sade.
Life from then on was inhabited by that stirring mise-en-scene:
castle walls studded with restraining rings.
French silk draping sweat lathered leather straps,
chamber pots spilling lipped rims
against bone white Limoges china, full
with overripe rose petals and luscious sex fruit—
oranges and lemons and pomegranates—
above a silver platter of rotted meat
in a shadow of flies.

His place was not to hold the lead,
as he only wanted to be Justine.
A role cast by a dice roll of hazard’s hand,
a book lit by flashlight, a map of a sort of life.
He did all he could to bring about his own
slow crawl across the castle stones.
Knees bruised and gorgeous
burning his very light into the purple rust of life,
the pride of open flesh. Every sin he did
and did not commit, the joy of eating
this guilt. A ragged split sternum
becomes beautiful in this way.
Everything else was routine as his very bones
yearned for extremes.

He dreams of LaCoste, the edge of the cliffs.
Those who dared to fall,  those compelled
onto the tan pebbled earth, so fragrant with herbs,
shaded by gray green leaves of ancient olive trees,
trunks contorted and bearing wrinkled fruit
locals refuse to taste.

This was somehow wrong
in a way that made him at ease.
Those shallow last breaths and the soft touch
of fellow daemons at the base.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.