Alison Zheng

The Muse

the muse wraps the asanawa around the photographer’s chest.

he thinks about last time. she wore a seifuku & white socks.

she’s older now. the photographs are everywhere. i spied

framed black & whites at the moma in san francisco under a

section called post-war. she found her own legs

splayed apart in the back of book - stores. compensation?

my muse, i gave you fame. she asks for too much.

he ignores her. he’s in charge; he’s her kinbakushi.

in warsaw, the zubryzce protested. he’s used to them. he

likes the hate, lusts for it. someone said his photography

has a raping gaze. well, provocation is art; is a burning.

the muse propels his body into the air. it turns him on when

the muse plays coy, actually, she’s just texting her friends &

soon enough, they arrive. small soft girls just like her.

straight black hair just like her. i have to piss! let me go!

they unearth everything: polaroids under his bed

giclee prints of his first wife all of it: painful.

the muse shows him a photo of herself. do you remember?

in front of strangers. i told you. i didn’t want it. i begged you.

you did it over and over. she holds it to a flame. now,

the house is on fire. the photographer is on fire. quietly, the women leave.