Finger-Pressed

He brings me to life at the end of my life. Born onto a clean

canvas from the shoulders, and he wraps me into a bathrobe

with flowers and white stripes. His ink-covered prints carve

wrinkles around my narrow lips. Finger-pressed, colorless.

Wrinkles run down my neck, marching to a black hole where

his nails pound until the small abyss darkened to night.

Perhaps you think I once poured smoke into my lungs

for pleasure, grey air inhaled for the sole purpose of feeling.

Now a woman comes close. She’s in a black sweater and she sweeps

her auburn hair over one shoulder, calling for another auburn haired girl.

I suppose they’re mother and daughter. The mother’s lips move,

She looks just like Nana, doesn’t she?

Her daughter smiles quickly, then flips her hair over her shoulders

and she drifts toward the others here in the gallery. The woman stays,

and her lips tilted upwards, crow’s feet wrinkles revealing that she almost

smiled. She’s a bit like me. Her eyes brighten with slight tears, like mine.

Her hand reaches out, hovering closer to me. She wants to touch my canvas skin.

I could be her grandmother. I am only finger-pressed, colorless. Endless.