Painting Light

Mike Collins

Some torturous glint

Of bright lights,

 Spews forth from epidermal pores.

The skin becomes a lantern,

Whether it be a pale white

That brings the sexy hammer vampires to mind,

Or the deep tans

Of the Amazon goddess in a cheesy Italian film.

 Naked,

On a tiger blanket,

Or maybe a pear

Which lies on your belly

As you sleep on a couch,

Which my paints would like to show

On this white canvas.

Your light

Could turn the brick walls

Into the purple woods

And red lakes

Of my early childhood.

Each critic would want a taste,

Like giant vultures,

Ready to tear a piece of red meat

To have and hold with the happiness

Revealed by your image.

But it never happens.

Even though I plead and ask

You just laugh and push it away,

Outside on the benches

Or during a friendly conversation

With a smile that hurts more