Painting

She somewhat grins with master strokes -
Curved lines carved roads
winding over each other
in search for ways to express
the moment
when she twinkled.

Her portrait is a lesson in geography,
mapped texture symphony, different
shades imposing on each other -
harmony in gradients and contrast.

Run your fingers up
her coarse hair and ripe-less nose,
a hand's
etchings into canvas, the steady story
where copper hills meet an oily river
of tan and burgundy:

Paths groove through a valley -
wrinkles on soft tundra,
lace in the hot Latvian loom,
sticky leather skin ripples,
weaving through childish screams,
tugging wars,
forgotten dreams
and wet bed sores.

Behind a hidden tree they
met, out in open twilight
an autumn day they spent,
basking, one in the other's eye,
in-tent.

Unfed
I numbingly clutched her face
in infant rage, and shrieked
boisterously.

On roads she led
me by my hand. Her grainy fingers,
I remember -
Hold my hand. Good boy.
in her thick tongue -
as we brushed through
bland third-world traffic.

Once upon a time
a satellite heard us canvass
why we hardly conversed.

Over phone-static blotches
we ended
with the somewhat
usual uttered formal
words and kisses.
I miss you.
Me too.

Some paintings
must be put under glass
for preservation. Else
they crack
and fade under the touch of cheek.