Close

Self-Portrait as Woman Cut Out of a Toulouse-Lautrec Painting 

Nicky Beer | Poetry

                                                                                                             “At the Moulin Rouge” (1892-5)

My forehead somewhere between absinthe and turquoise.  
Stiff-cheeked, Medusa caught in her own glance. Ghastly,  
ghastly. I have glimpsed something just over your head,  
the shot in the horror film before the mutated bat drops  
from the ceiling. My monstrosity similarly without shame.  
Never before have pink-shadowed eyebrows been so troubling. 
Carnelian lips a sharp, sensuous terror. The Moulin Rouge  
is a reef behind me: oystershell profiles, anemoned boas.  
Sleeves puffed with hypnotic toxins. Predatory hats.  
A miniature shark circles inside a half-filled snifter.  
The other faces here at least allow you the privacy of your own gawk.  
But the oval floating above my collar disrupts any peace.  
Your lungs crush. I’m lost in the hours to come, when my copine 
will crack the door, her red dress frenzying the dark.  
Trapped and absent in my gaze, no wonder you had to take  

                                                                                                                     out your knife.