Consider it a relic,
the tooth of the canvas
stretched and shaved,
fixed in glass, a deathlike silence
of Oxygen unkissed. Consider loose hair
strung from fingers – yours?
His? Behind the pencil, make a mark,
draw height and find a wall. Cross out names.
Your art teacher stank. Told you nothing.
Consider it an education,
blank spaces for your imagination
to praise. Sneer.
Fill a Grecian vase with blue flowers,
press dye into your eye.
Consider the back of a stranger
and pontificate genetics.
Say your father was good at fixing things,
say your mother was good for pulling
things apart. Say you are lost,
admit distance. Press graphite and
shear your arms, wisps of longing
in struck eosin bleeds. Stick to stick
forms though keep your plump
little belly. Buddha boy belly,
clay lump belly. Circle glue
and peel off the layers.
Hang skin from bent wire.
Dry the stains of hop seed and hemp,
thread wicker and burn.
Lie flat in the sun, leave white lines,
rolling eggshell and corn silk.
Etch camera lenses,
diamond points. The hold
of smoke and mirror. Say no.
Say no. Say no and
from another room
where bath water has been left running
and candles flicker,
bodies of vapour,
celestial in touch.
Marianne Daniels has an MA in Creative Writing. She lives and works in Manchester, England.