While I was watching
she didn’t do
a slow dissolve
on the canvas
of what I’ve painted.
I waited for it.
I waited for
the oils to
drip down and blur
the dark strokes,
the blood wine moons
and negative stars
sketched in reverse,
the sharp intakes
of my past slashed,
an untitled piece
I can’t remember making.
And she, my bright
yellow sunburst,
in the center
of my painting,
her edges touching
mine–she’s
growing and growing.
She stares back
at me, unashamed.
Difficult Degrees 