artistry
my friend said to me once that he could never paint my face.
i have never forgotten it -- i can still picture the scene:
he leans back on the couch; i am crosslegged and hunched, as always.
it was a statement of fact, as an artist, in the context,
a passing remark.
i turn it over in my head, its possible meanings,
its connotations.
our friend scowled nearby, a pretty girl, because she,
she could be painted, as if
the quality of remembrance, tangibility,
were a mark of condescension.
i examine my face in the mirror.
my eyes are unusual, perhaps,
the shifting colors, the suggestion of gold;
mouth sensual, i am told; nose slightly too large --
i examine my face and i see nothing but lines.
my face is a grid, a geometry;
arcs and tangents, angles;
a framework, still waiting to be mapped.