No. 4

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No. 4 ‘She Draws Herself Like a G’

I’m trying to find her face
behind her hair
above her open neck,
long, bared like a wound
mirrored by open,
pale page beneath
her, in her lap—black notebook
filled with
swirls and sketches
luminous but confused,
a parched tongue
put into ink

I’m trying find her face
I trace her hunched,
rippled form,
her flats, clear like glass,
from a department store,
plastic weave pushing her toes
together, it is barely nine but her
scribbles bleed down
the page furiously, as if from gashes
in her spirit

I’m willing her to look up
to find what is her face
if only to make her more human
and less fictitious
or maybe I want to intrude
on her mad reverie
this early-morning artist
pouring thoughts
into words like molten
metal into forms
that will harden into
something tangible enough
to name, to understand

words mirror body,
its language dark and guttural
thick, despite
a slight form
she draws herself
like a G, torso arcing
into her legs’ squared tail,
a dark, glistening stroke
that simply has no face

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