The Painter to Her Ex-lover
So you’re in love.
Most people wouldn’t be able to tell, you know.
But I’m not most people.
I can trace you like Degas
Traced ballerinas, in hazy recollections
Of peach pastel, so blended
You forget yourself.
But I am immutable. I don’t forget
What I had for breakfast
Or the state fish of Indiana.
Or that car’s carcass
I saw the other day,
Spread out on the interstate
Between routes 280 and 9.
Even so, I remember
Eyelashes like Damascus silk,
Cheekbones carved in hazel skin.
I think about tracing you
In charcoal and smoke
So I will always have you.
So that if she peels away the skin,
Layer by layer,
To expose pastelled bone,
You won’t be just carcass.