Mark Doty
To Caravaggio
Two poems from The Vault a sequence titled after a leather bar in Provincetown
The Hispanic boy beside me—nude, only mildly muscled,
a slight tracing of hair above the heart-searing curve of his upper
lip—
is next in line for a massage, so he lies down on the pool table,
covered tonight with a sheet of black plywood, a black tarp,
and long rows of paper towels. He’s so finely white he’s nearly blue,
and as the masseur begins—first a light coating of oil for traction,
then the rub in earnest; down the back, working the neck
and shoulders, the long thighs, turning him over, polishing
the long abdomen, raising towards the ceiling lamp
the firm and slender chest. And now he seems a cadaver,
laid out, or a boy posing as a corpse, inert, eyes
at ease, mouth entirely tranquil. All in a ring
around the table, young men and grizzled elders watching,
and two splendid witnesses like visiting kings,
without their fine robes, their perfect skin shading into the darkness.
Then the masseur lifts the arms above the head, to stretch
the lats and shoulders, and suddenly the boy’s the corpus of our
Lord
still nailed to his cross, shockingly real, the dark of the room
composing itself, in lustrous blacks, around the suspended body.
a slight tracing of hair above the heart-searing curve of his upper
lip—
is next in line for a massage, so he lies down on the pool table,
covered tonight with a sheet of black plywood, a black tarp,
and long rows of paper towels. He’s so finely white he’s nearly blue,
and as the masseur begins—first a light coating of oil for traction,
then the rub in earnest; down the back, working the neck
and shoulders, the long thighs, turning him over, polishing
the long abdomen, raising towards the ceiling lamp
the firm and slender chest. And now he seems a cadaver,
laid out, or a boy posing as a corpse, inert, eyes
at ease, mouth entirely tranquil. All in a ring
around the table, young men and grizzled elders watching,
and two splendid witnesses like visiting kings,
without their fine robes, their perfect skin shading into the darkness.
Then the masseur lifts the arms above the head, to stretch
the lats and shoulders, and suddenly the boy’s the corpus of our
Lord
still nailed to his cross, shockingly real, the dark of the room
composing itself, in lustrous blacks, around the suspended body.
Page(s) 32
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