Tonight be vellum a parchment of flesh bowed
in birthmarks and scratches the concave of
shoulder blades the arcs of hips hands translucent
cold on any afternoon stomach held tight
your eyes clear cautious aware that
to be a woman is to be watched
to be painted over and hung carelessly a portrait
taken away for dim galleries for bathrooms
an illustration of the nativity of what can’t be owned
Let these men these children credit you as only
another canvas a sketchbook they’ll fill with
crude stick figures penciled in a rush who
dissect each other in angles one standing
one kneeling arms out one crawling away
They will never imagine that you dance
under thunderheads can read their futures in
your mouth or that you’ve torn out the last page
of every novel you’ve ever had so after climax
the story is yours
Michael Wayne Hampton
