What is a woman,
And what do you do with her?
This is always an idea
With the paints
And the brushes
And the hands
At first you shall paint
Her delicate,
Because that is a
Woman.
But she might become
Angry, and try to rip
The canvas
In two.
You fear, and yet you begin.
You hold the brush like a
Weapon. A foreign object
To claim as your own,
To make your own.
You hold it like a sword,
Ready to conquer.
You want to paint a
Woman. You want to paint
Your woman.
You are painting a landscape
A country- filled with whatever
You desire. It is your land.
Your umbers, your blues,
Your greens, your ochres.
Your gold fields slashed with
Silver and gold.
Again and again-
And you become repetitive.
But you are a man
So you charge on,
Tool in hand,
Weapon in hand,
Army in hand.
You paint the woman
Against the wall.
She wears a turban,
A necklace of beads
Laced around her throat,
Paint out the red stains on her hands
And the rope burns on her wrists.
Discard them.
Smudge away the bruise
Under her left eye,
And camouflage the copper
Between her teeth.
You see, this is your woman
And these are but small details-
That do not belong
In your frame.
You should destroy them when you can,
And you do.
And now your woman is tan and rosy,
Dusted with glittering petals,
And the light shines off her skin
As if you are looking at her
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.