Her Sanguine-Colored Rue
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.
Intellectual
Property Rights:© 1999 – 2014 Mimi Wolske/Mona Arizona™. All rights reserved.
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