In literary theory, the chronotope is how a moment in time and space collide through language.

Blue Nude II

She’s splayed out on the bed,
twisted and leaning, the way that Matisse

print tilted against the mid-century
sofa on the floor of a Northampton

antique store. I just don’t know
what to do with her curves, that dimple

in her back I’ve never quite seen before
because how could I see my own back

in a mirror without almost breaking
my neck. Maybe if I play artist and cut out

her legs, each now separate from the body,
now separate from the arms, now separate

from the head, I would know what to do
with all these pieces of girl. Still she’s there
waiting for me to do something, anything
except probably cutting her up
and turning her into art, though that’s all
I can think about and it’s killing the mood.

queer temporality

The Dude Who Bought Douche