Portrait by Marianne Daniels

The Blue Hour

Consider it a relic,
the tooth of the canvas
stretched and shaved,
fixed in glass, a deathlike silence

of Oxygen unkissed. Consider loose hair
strung from fingers – yours?
His? Behind the pencil, make a mark,
draw height and find a wall. Cross out names.

Your art teacher stank. Told you nothing.
Consider it an education,
blank spaces for your imagination

to praise. Sneer.
Fill a Grecian vase with blue flowers,
press dye into your eye.

Consider the back of a stranger
and pontificate genetics.
Say your father was good at fixing things,

say your mother was good for pulling
things apart. Say you are lost,
admit distance. Press graphite and

shear your arms, wisps of longing
in struck eosin bleeds. Stick to stick
forms though keep your plump

little belly. Buddha boy belly,
clay lump belly. Circle glue
and peel off the layers.
Hang skin from bent wire.


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