He has a smile like handcuffs and my wrists are raw and arrested. Under cool water I pour bruises down the drain and smile at the sting of reconstruction. Hammer against backbone I am arched like a bridge over his table, one determined hand prevents me from breaking.There are blueprints over my legs. Adjustments to the pillars that keep me upright and tempting. Painted all the colors of exploration my center has been placed between chin and shoulder, marked by two crescent moons, the memory of teeth. Biting the banks of thigh the river ran shallow after the drain of clay but these waters will rise with the next rain. Moisture to polish the painting of my favor. Gesso down throat, swallowing portraits of what we could make together - landscapes, hips, novels. My canvas is stretched for possibility, waiting for mark, it inhales softly, the hum of finished songs. Lips like lyrics I sing from memory, pausing only when he dips his brush in, sighs and makes a line. The trace of past lovers I will never know cover the internal tattoos of lovers he's trying to best. She over me, me a reflection of her, another picture, another poem. We rub together like etchings, a 2 print run. Signatures mark completion like orgasms, panting at the end of masterpiece. We dusty seasons, sprung from marble, challenge time with its own watch. He has me bent and captive. I have his sketch all around me. Together we studio a scene made from found objects and clasped hands. An original showing, hung under heavy lights, promises this sort of talent only gets better with time… and practice.

April, 2008