While perusing pictures at the Louvre
A dragon felt dismayed and moved
At how often they portrayed
When Saint George cruelly slayed.  
If claws could clutch brushes they’d reprove.

My face like a canvas
And I am the artist
I grab my paintbrush
Dipping it in the paint on my pallet
I bring the bristles up to my lips
And I begin my masterpiece
Painting on a beautiful smile
For all to see
But no matter how realistic my art looks
The smile will always be a painting

We bought a new painting. It looks like…it looks. The little girl. The dog. They appear dripped on but look out with life — at my life. Sherry bought it. I nodded. That’s all I do. I don’t go into that room because the girl might cry. The dog might bark.

In a rickety, rustic wooden chair
next to a matching table in a matching room,
one pink tentacle
wrapped around the ornate handle of a
tiny white tea cup,
the other suctioned to a page of an
antique volume of vaginal poetry,
I observe myself in a broken mirror.  
My 50 smiling fly eyes are beguiling but villainous,
inebriated but inhumane,
like black pearls of gooified obsidian
bejeweling the chunky strawberry jelly
of my veinous face.  
My beak is small like the wren's.  
My expression is in unison with my thought:
This mirror is very very broken.