Artists studying the same object
I. She says she feels her skin as mud:
dirt & water, churned under callused
hands until it becomes smoothed.
The clay of a god, with just enough
grit in it to remind her,
I am only human.
II. To me, she is smooth & wet
like oil paints, like her voice
when she reads her sad words.
Like blood spilled on dirty hands,
beautiful & horrible, like birth
& death. She proclaims I am black,
but I only see her in shades
of blue & red.
III. If Hugh Heffner called at 3am, his voice
thick with lust at her inner beauty,
she would refuse to model for him
& his studied portrayal of puritan-
ized sex. The world is not ready for her
bubbled body and lunatic eyes:
it only reads the articles, not the poetry.