when I was younger I wanted to be
the personification of some artist’s
inner life—
i would be the girl with the mask tacked
on backwards, the girl over-thinking
her image—
i would be youth, hope, the red blushes
in forests, the red blushes
when boys lean in close
and say things from books—like this
is a novel, like we are perfect
characters, too Created to care
about self-actualization.
Now, the complement is post-mortem
nightmare: the sensitive boy
is enraptured, he cannot
make Art into a girl
or piece himself
into a man.
The girl is power-drunk, the boy fading
and smiling at her hand. she is
god to him—she is nothing to him,
she is a frame without the painting.
the last pavilion 