It is not what I wouldn’t expect it is

spiraling hair and eyes opening from skin

brown spheres transform to eggs

and he is there in them, reflected

a brush poised and then a stroke

of red in the middle of all that girl,

blooming from my chest, then – birds perched

to fly off shoulders, grass mushed underfoot

by a creature, Bosch and his love of creatures,

standing points to the sky to my face and on

the tongue, a table and twisted cage upon it,

rusted, twitching in the middle – my words

suppressed, he paints more creatures into

me and they abound, twirl through

my fingertips, reach for reddening

skin, tug at spirals of dark, climb

to my tongue and tug at the small

cage, drip down my chin and play

at my collarbone – his brush

drags landscapes into me, pulls

wildernesses from the throat, petals

of sweetest violets, porcelain shells

and oysters, inks and precious pages,

plump black berries and crystal beads

like so many pomegranate seeds, juice

slipping from my lips, forbidden

fruits choke me and I cough them up,

more little pleasures everywhere – dull, birds

escape, those little devils finally

opening the cage door, and Bosch knows not 

how to paint my words so this is

my portrait – the eyes

that are eggs now, Bosch and his love of eggs, 

are birthing the image of him painting me,

he sits in them, I knowing not

how to write portraits so he is forever

brushing over me with red and craze,

that blooming red overtaking and I

become a thing of fire.