[after viewing encaustic paintings of Stephanie Hargrave, Shift Gallery, Seattle, 2/10/2018]
Black graphite dust
skitters across
the small beige panel
molten wax layers
built up in relief.
Up close,
the beige isn’t beige.
It’s a polychromatic play of light and depth
white and yellow and brown
even a hint of green
the top layer glossy and smooth
tauntingly tactile.
My fingers are drawn within millimeters
before I sharply pull them back
unwilling to leave my
my fingerprint
traces of oil, acid, DNA
on the melted beeswax
still hardening
over the years.
The heat of my flesh
won’t unfuse layers of molten wax and resin
won’t undo the artist’s work.
Yet the heat of your flesh
melts and softens me
your name skitters across my tongue
your fingertip stays in the bruise on my thigh
I am layered and fused with you
little traces of red
black outlines of botanicals
smudges and blurs of DNA and lovemaking
cooling on the canvas of my skin.
My love,
brush me with another layer of pigment
adorn my hair with jewels
lay me down on the wooden board
protect me
preserve me
entomb me in Fayum
so I can remain
the way you created me.