The Nikon film camera dresses your
head like an ebony and silver crown,
your composed hands aiming its aperture
at the bathroom mirror. Dark hair flows down
past your shoulders, rests in swirls on wide crests
of your breasts, nipples teasing beige slip’s lace.
Your slight stomach roll offers flesh caressed
by satin. I smile at how your calm gaze
recalls Napoleon when he declared
himself emperor, Pope Pius VII
slouched and frowning on his powerless chair
eleven years before St. Helena,
isle named for the mother of Constantine.
Your sensual lips reflect Josephine’s.
Roger Armbrust
September 30, 2007
