Mimi Wolske, April 2014
All Rights Reserved
She'd considered herself a master,
A tormented, public artist;
She hoped this one work would vindicate her.
She called him her womanizing lover.
A blank canvas stretched taut before her
Waiting for her palette's embittered story.
Hands chased his words with arabesque brushes,
Mixed shades, drying water-colored untruths
That had stroked her with Olympian deceit.
The colors she used, trapped in swirls
Of liquid ichor, created lips and
Crafted his long fingers that were his lies.
Painted fingers pushed away red, permed curls
Then spun silver threads between his thighs
Like unspoken hues once believed in his eyes.
A golden shower of myth would be his;
Her coppery ire, her iniquity,
Possessed artist's hands molded handsomeness.
Relentless, consuming, erosive waves
Colored the maleness that was his fame.
Shrouded in despair, her horsehair tongue cursed his name.
Unlike the painted god placed before us,
We'd sat back, watched her painting come to life,
Observed jealousy grow and wind her tight.
Eternity would not belong to her.
Toleration lost, her heart on her sleeve,
She surrendered her brush, touched palm to paint;
She'd believed all his stories of romance,
His tales of wooing and domination...
His untruths became her unfinished work.
We minimize the screen, roll together.
He coaxes a blush pink and blissful moans
From my half-formed lips as he gives me his.
Tactile heat burns and he sinks into me.
Lusty, breathy, we are our own canvas
And keep love alive in oils that won't gel.
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