Conversations with Self-Portrait

My brush stroke    remains paralyzed
and the portrait scoffs,
an unhurried sigh escaping over its pale lips,

What do you know    do you know   beyond a dot    an iota

with one woman eyes that watch without alteration   modulation.
How can you presume   consume dialogue with merit   to any   to all
in monotone tongue and starving palette bleached,
so absurd the notion   promotion of unshakeable authority
with and of    a single signature fading before my ink dries . . .

In tantrum   I bellow,
spattering inadequacies    defiant spittle   across the canvas,
a scream birthing primordial returned,

I want to know    I want to know    want to know

the mouth   the movement   memory of woman
of molecule and mass    whose groans    moans
rise from stalk and stem
brood    blood    scattered by winds and wails.
I want
to comprehend the degrees of saturation
the consumption of its darkest dark
the assimilation of its lightest light eyes   of she.

Needing
to follow her dance of bare breasts    bruises and audacity
round the fires kept burning.
Pining to hold my hands under the belly of her dreams,
feel her curves be my curves.
I paint   I devour   her essence   her undertone
yesterday    today   tomorrow

I will    I will

Kiss the lips of her men,
fall into their arms guileless    faultless surrender.
Diminished
backbone, undulating supple compromise conversation.

Portrait, I answer    I will not be silent.
I will know all of her.
And with me,
she will fold our arms round my mother.
Beside me,
together, she will surround our daughters,
hunt down our sons with an eye fast on the moonbeam
and a cup held to capture the rain.

Portrait
I can give my brush this command,

Adorn my head with her hats of color.
Give blush   to my complexion   in gradations of gratitude
of all hues    all shades    all distinctions

Hush now …
Let me Create