He insists oil paint is more appropriate.
They take longer to dry. Flaws adjust easily.
I stand naked with all imperfections showing.
My lopsided breasts, the sag of my ass,
the unevenness of my nipples and hips.
I want him to paint my spirit but I don’t know where it lives.
He calculates color.
I don’t recognize myself, but I
I can feel my racing heartbeat.
I think of everything I do not want to think about.
I have no lover, no husband, no one to go home to,
no one to be jealous or angry that there
is a man watching me naked.
A single woman without child,
without abortion, without fame or faith.
I want him to cut my heart open on
the canvas and paint it into my hands,
so I can finally hold it, tell it everything is okay.
Published in #32 of Crack the Spine Magazine.