The Realist

Fact: Making love is like painting, each time a new composition is made.
Statement: Not everyone is a painter OR
there is not enough paint in the world

I say: “You are not a painter, construction worker”

You dip my head in green, a bit of white—
rub it in eyes, smooth it over lips
clumps in my ears
load your spade and spread it in my mouth
four sides and full—
score the neck

I groan like a bus, “this is probably plaster”

Your hand between my back—
a puddle of blue, I drip
you slip a sponge behind my shoulder blades
pull and hook me on the wall
coil my right leg
shred my left—
Are you sawing my foot?

“fucking carpenter” from somewhere outside myself

rip a blade up my stomach my throat
your hand in and through my mouth—
now pull from a mile inside

I am reversed inside out
plunged into like a glove

hammer each flap of me to the wall
Tap, tap, tap

“see you are a construction worker”
I gurgle through a mouth of paint
and bits of your wrist

You: sell me for more canvas
Me: I bet I don’t become famous when you die