Raw canvas holds
the paint with more
bite: how like a serpent’s tooth.
And how like a flicking tongue
these flat bristles taste
the intention in each stroke.
A slow delineation
of the daughter
appears unprimed
as a cell taking shape.
She complains of boredom
and fatigue having to hold
this position for what feels
like hours.
The honeyed light
thickens her voice
and sets in motion all
those orbiting motes.
Scrolled
ear and skewed
brow are brought to life
by the long afternoon’s
darkening reach.
The canvas becomes
a wordless pact between me
and the you coming
into being.
The stretched flat surface
yields to a fictional
dimension powered by primitive
impulses. Promises unfulfilled,
opportunities missed.
The nagging fixation to start
again that gnaws deep
into one’s viscera.
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