I like your picture Dora Maar.
I would know you from it anywhere.
Your green-red-rose, pale-white skin
a flawless union
awash in morning yellow.
"I don't look normal."
Your forehead is unafraid
of your steelgreen hair.
Obedient in front
and disciplined behind your shoulder.
It is the choppiness of the Mediterranean
against a long deep pier.
"You are a handsome idiot."
Handsomeness is an attribute of idiocy.
"All I ever wanted was beauty."
You may have mine.
I would rather observe
the conversation of your eyes
that stare into each other.
One salmon, one white
as if you have two souls.
"Only an idiot could find me beautiful."
I find you perfect as a picture.
Traipsing red nails on rigid fingers
direct me to your lyric clef ear
like an invitation.
"If one finds me beautiful
no other critic matters."
When I first saw your picture I wanted
to kiss it's strict nose with two left nostrils
and free you from your sleep of canvas.
"I long for your dumbstruck, perfect lips
pressed against the one blandness of my face."
Obtuseness is all that's worth kissing.
I stumbled onto my name recently on the web on Mothla from NZ's list of favorite authors. This poem was what put me there. It unsettled me as if I were happily living in a strange land and one day realized just how far away from home I was and that I'd left the kettle on. So it's fitting this first post of my ill-fated story project here should be this poem, which I dedicate to Mothla.
This rendering of Dora was created with Pocket Artist for iPhone.
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