nevermind + poetry.

painting of a woman

Through water.

This is what you want.

The colors to be purified through her.

But now there is another question,

Another idea:

Do you make her a comedy

Or do you make her a martyr?

Are her hands birds or

Are they just hands?

Are her eyes just eyes

Or are they blooming flowers?

This woman that you are

Painting is your woman

And you can decide what to do with her.

You cannot, so you slice off her head

And toss it into the sky.

Call her an abstract prophesy.

But the thing is

That you want it back.

You push the clouds into her collar bones

And you try again.

Place a meal atop her head.

Balanced fruits are atop her skull,

Wrapped in fabric and strikingly vibrant.

Do not dull down these colors

These become her thoughts

Tearing through her skin

Pushing through her organs-

And now there is more questions.

Is she intelligent?

Is she afraid?

Is she barren?

Is she nothing?

Name her Eve and fear her.

Call her Adam and burn her roots.

This woman is yours

And you decide what to do with her.

What do you do with her?

But the thing is

Now your hands are far too alive.

And you say that you don't remember but you do.

You say you don't recall but you do.

And

You are not a painter.

You clutch a bottle in one fist

And a cigarette in the other.

These are your voice.

You call them your voice.

But now everything you paint

Is too real.

But now something is different-

Now she is not yours.

She is pushing through the wall.

Bruised and bloody- remember?

You do.

And you painted her this way.

But now what do you do with her?

Oh, but you forgot to paint the part

Where the silk of her robe was torn

Straight down the middle.

Her head cracked straight through

The center like a severed

Landscape.

A bit like yours.

But-

Where is the golden sunrise?

Where are the ivory birds?

And now her hands aren't hands-

And they sing,

And her eyes scream rage-

And you start to fear her.

You remember she is your wife.

What do you do with her now?

Name her crazy and she will

Shatter the frame you painted

Her into in the first place.

Leave her alone

And she will tear you in two.

Remember how you avoided the colors.

You will paint back in what you cropped out before.

This is your woman.

And yet, you ask again,

More terrified this time-

What is a woman?

She is not a work of art,

Or a fiction-

But the scary thing is-

That you are not a painter.

What is a man and what

Do you do with him?

You paint him into

The picture and you

Watch him paint himself out-

And the woman-

You frame her in.