tree circles 3

By Stephen Linsteadt

The end of my brush traces old scars
below the edges of bones

(Oh I want to see them:
7 stitches in the forehead for calling me a girl.
You ran when I picked up a rock then turned around in time to catch it in the skull.
I bruised my brain once when I rode into a truck.)

Half in, half out
these scars breathe a confession

when I stand in a certain light

sifting through erasures
to find my exiled slave.

(Like the blood my neighbor’s wife wiped away
after she sat on my lap at a dinner party

wanting to catch her husband’s attention.)

Now I make the canvas bleed—

the swamp cooler runs out of water again and I’m down to my shorts.

Fluorescent tubes spoil the backlighting.

Sand pounds on the door.

At my feet a turpentine soaked rag,
a sail,
a loadstone,
the only way back to the surface.

I almost forgot her nakedness
transposed to the canvas—

her breasts hoping for re-election
wave to the crowd.

but the model, unaware,
dresses then leaves.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s