Someone asked me if I was an artist once.
I sort of stammered and squinted my eyes.
Artists’ apples don’t look like oranges,
But I’ve got faces peeping at me from margins.
In the space, I draw shapes.
I draw flowers. I draw his face.
Solve me the story of the chicken and egg.
Of the face I practiced until perfect
And the perfect face I drew to the dregs.
Even when I’m looking at yellow lilies,
My important pages still fill with
Surprised eyebrows and tidal hair.
And I know he’s not mine anymore
But damn it; he’s stuck in my pen,
Blended into this purple ink,
Bending over this paper over again, and over,
Staining the sheets that won’t hold someone else.
That won’t taste the face of someone less bitter.
So I keep my head filled and hands empty
Don’t stop me; I’m marching up, onward
I’m widening the words I write lately
‘Cause I’m scared of you filling my margins.