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.