Creation Myth

Who is she kidding tonight?
Brush in hand,
paint on her pants.
The smell of turpentine.

Water on the floor.

She puts her fingers to her eyes
in search of a valve, a
release for the pressure.
She remembers the green
in mirrors--
something like that
might be nice.

Instead of this swampy canvas.

Could she take them then instead--
pry the jewels from her face?
But then how would she see to paint?
Whatever it is comes out wrong,
and the picture becomes less
than what she sees, or
is looking for.
There are bandages where she sought
a breathing red.

But it faded out.
Cheap pigment.

And the easle creaks
with the violent strokes;
the frame buckles,
the brace bends.
Stretched far enough,
sanded smooth enough?
She needs more more more.

Somewhere a summer day is bleeding
to death for the sake of her blues.
A star fading for white.
Somewhere a man, or child
withers for the subtle truth of skin.

She takes a match to the oils
and begins anew,
waiting to fail again.

Who is she killing,

AK LaBelle 2005