The Sunday Poem: The Genius Explains Painting

“Everyone has an art,” he said.

He dipped his paintbrush into the oils
And dabbed red onto the soft bristles.

“The thing is, not everyone has a canvas,”
and he dabbed some red onto me.
“But they really aren’t hard to find.”
And I didn’t dare move for fear of smearing.

He was a whirlwind, and his strokes
licked my face and slapped my arms,
until there I stood, a statue of paints,
caked and crusted. Then he took my hand,
saying, “This is painting, and this is art,”
and I stepped out of the shell of dried paint.
After some hours flaked it to nothing,
I was nothing but the space where I had stood.