Penumbra, Issue 31, 2021, p. 94

The rich palette of peach and yellow and white conjures feminine reverie,

light and feathery in places, paint thick and heavy in others,

a pool of burnt orange coagulates at the bottom of the canvas.

We can trace the brush as it stroked away form, left only movement and energy,

released legs from torso, lips from face, flesh from bone, all in a kind of writhing.

They call it art – that which can blast apart a woman’s form, embellish her

by removing symmetry, blend her with found objects, carve her eyes on the wrong side

of her head, toss her lips halfway across the canvas, remove her head from her neck,

deconstruct her until there is nothing left.

On a linen canvas the image never coalesces, thighs and breasts and buttocks

could be anywhere – anywhere – as if this is what we want.  Women to be torn

apart, swept this way and that. Eros drawn from our bits and fragments,

whole pieces cleaved off and flung to the corners of the canvas, unrecognizable

as human parts until our eyes find the enigmatic title, bold black print on the wall

informing the viewer this is an homage to love.

Your love, artless, shattered my form, severed heart from chest, cleaved skin

from soul, erased light from eyes, rubbed out my edges, smudged my face

until only the faintest outline remained. Stretched across a fresh white canvas

I painted myself back to form, pulsed the lyrics of my heart, flecked

brown and green longings onto each iris, tucked coral dreams

beneath locks of auburn curls, wrote my name into the story in bold print,

informing the viewer this in an homage to love.