There's something about paint
That begs to feel skin
Something about
How smooth it is,
How it can rise and fall in little dobs and smudges.
Sometimes when it's very late
And I am painting and my palette is a whirl of color
I press my palms right into the middle of it
Like a child
And I settle them there, making sure every ridge and wrinkle is covered.
When I pull back and see the design
I always like my hands much better than before.
And then I think
Why stop at hands?
I stand and strip off what clothing I'm still wearing
And look at my body in the mirror,
All white and shining in the dimness, a sliver of bone
And I make it different with my hands.
Handprints.
I have always wanted to do it with a lover-
To cover her in painted handprints and have her cover me,
To wear the evidence of every place we touch
In the colors that blend on our skin.
Alone in the mirror,
I place careful palms on my stomach, my legs, my *******, my shoulder.
I do it until I like the dissymmetry of myself.
I step back,
And wonder why I feel that I look more natural like this
Than bare.
A tumble of black hair, a sheath of white skin,
And on it
Crimson
Gold
Azure
Onyx
Fiery orange and icy blue
Poison green and violet
Blood red and blushing pink
All swirled and smudged, holding the shape of my fingerprints,
And I am more me
Than I was before.
Later it will dry and crack like clay.
Later I will shed it like a second skin, fascinated by its uneven splattering.
It will slough off, painless and mesmerizing, and I will be what I was before-
A sliver of bone.
But for now I am a canvas, and tonight, for once, I have not been left
Unaltered.
