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The artist falls in love with the canvas.
The canvas,
wonders what the artist sees in her. Purity?
He begins with one stroke
of candy-apple red,
and she feels alive for the first time
eagerly awaits his next move.
Soon she acquires eyes, a nose,
lips. She hopes to call the face her own,
but instead feels the artistís
own face closing in, one deliberate brushstroke
after the next.
His features start to weigh her
down, until each drop of paint makes her wish
she could be blank
again, full
of possibilities.
But the easel holds her
in the artistís grip
until every detail has been forced upon her. She dries
as quickly as tears,
The masterpiece is finished.
The artist saw himself.
Christina Curlette
Published in Issue 34