Harvest Time For The Blind Artisan
When you looked at me with your artist’s gaze,
I was crimson and blush with sweet wine on my lips.
You would stare for hours it seemed, and I’d feel
like I was on denuded display. How I loved the
glass case I was in; how I loved the way your
eyes stroked my face and body, despite tempered layers.
I now feel more like still life than ever before.
I’m the corpulent orange that dangles hopeful
in the air, waiting to be plucked and peeled.
I am ripe, yet close to rotting, with soft spots
that may bruise with the slightest, tender touch.
I no longer feel luscious and perfumed.
I am somehow sour and unsavoury.
I sit in the dark to avoid fading.
I know how damaging the sun will be
if I expose myself to its indiscriminate truth.
You will see, if you care to look, the lines and
inconsistent colours; the smudges and haplessly
hidden blemishes and scars, incurred by years of
living as though I thought I’d be preserved forever.
When did my portrait become relegated to the farthest wall?
I love the feel of well-intentioned fingers tracing my
dimpled, quivering skin. How wonderful to feel their desire
bleed into me, even when they come upon flaw after
breathtaking flaw. It fattens me up, fills me with nectar.
I burgeon and bud with honeyed elixir with which to tease the tongue.
Forbidden ambrosia; the delectable star of the cornucopia on the table.
I am in season.
If I stain your lips, you can always lick them to remove any trace.
You can paint over me, or wipe me away. Find a brighter colour.
Through the artist’s eyes,
I feel a strong desire to be nailed to the wall.
If he should look away to see how another subject may
entice and flourish in the light,
I may slide down to the ground and decay.
The accidental muse will have fallen off the branch,
her essence saturating the earth over which she had once
lured and tantalized unknowingly.
The starving artist produces nothing by refusing sweet offerings.