He says it's a texture thing
and so he begins to mix my blood
and wax and spooge in a cup
I, tethered to a chair,
legs splayed and bleeding
watch while he applies our paint
to canvas, a gnarled block of wood
that glistens (my sweat is mixed
in the varnish).
He paints and I watch, (semi-conscious now;
blood loss will do that to you), me emerge-
bulbous tree sprouting from the corner of his field
my arms, branches spiraling up and outward,
red trellises coagulating beneath a frigid sun.
I smile just before everything goes black.
prompt. my apologies for my imitation of art. I blame, thank Shay for the inspiration. I read her first and my mind went here. Artwork by Kathryn Dyche Dechairo