I think too often of Modigliani
who is wiser,
deader than I,
who curls at the foot of my bed
like an oil-drenched dog
dragging strokes of cadmium yellowred
along the floor.
In cobalt blue night he tells me:
“Each morning I sculpt a person
into being,
painting right shoulder,
left shoulder, neck.
In my mirror the texture of acrylic
on canvas. In my reflection the taste
of titanium, iron.
I lick the glass
to clear the fog.
I dream
of distortion.
I am happy here.”
who is wiser,
deader than I,
who curls at the foot of my bed
like an oil-drenched dog
dragging strokes of cadmium yellowred
along the floor.
In cobalt blue night he tells me:
“Each morning I sculpt a person
into being,
painting right shoulder,
left shoulder, neck.
In my mirror the texture of acrylic
on canvas. In my reflection the taste
of titanium, iron.
I lick the glass
to clear the fog.
I dream
of distortion.
I am happy here.”
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Noelle McManus is a writer-poet-linguist from Long Island, New York. You can find more of their work at noellemcmanus.com, or follow them on Instagram @n.o.e.lle
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