Redraw my body in hexagons; maybe I’ll feel more at home.
We’ll try this again. I’m the face in every mirror, the man
dancing on the tightrope. (I wanted to be the man this time)
Rearrange.

I’m the woman on pins and needles, flying just out of reach.
You are painting the curves of my breasts from memory.
My face is a blur of triangles. (you’ve forgotten the color of eyes)

The gallery floor is white; we walk between the squares. The real
world grows dull with every passing afternoon. Lines hold their shape.
Streaks of sunlight fall across the fading sky above the museum.

Paint me into the landscape this time, let me vanish on the horizon.
We always play a game in the museum where you point at a painting
and say this one is me, this one is you. (today there is an urgency to it)

We move through the modern wing and the shapes grow ridiculous.
You birth a child for this one. I carve landscapes into rooms and mold
people from my ribs. We build our own universe (and live in it)

Just outside of the frame the sunlight is dim. Just outside the frame
you’ve started another fight and I am puking into the toilet again.
Walking home, I ask a street artist to draw us. Hang it on the fridge.
Humor me.

In the sketch my glasses are comically round and your smile
is a crescent. This one’s us.The shapes are rigid.
(when you finally move out, I rearrange and it comes down)
 

 

 

 


Syd Shaw is a senior, double majoring in Creative Writing and Journalism. Syd is from Sylmar, CA. Their passions include long distance running, 80s pop music, and witchcraft.