by Saundra Cindrich
It seems
to me, Michelangelo,
that you could have waited
to paint your great Sistine Chapel
until now.
On good days naked I can see
myself touching God’s finger
on a ceiling of dimpled thighs and ample bellies.
On good days naked I can hear
the murmur of plump defiance
as my delicate wings
propel me beyond gravity
into mounds of ice cream clouds.
On good days naked I can feel
the fall
of jealous eyes upon my body’s inheritance—
generations of genes
deposited faithfully
in my round luxuriant self—
laid back and chosen
by you for the splendid ceiling
of your Sistine Chapel.
It seems
to me, Michelangelo,
that you should have waited
for me.
My sufflated body on your ceiling
would have been the envy
of even Raphael’s
Graces.
