A Poem at the MOMA

can i paint you?

the canvas of who you are is not blank

i’m only asking, can i paint you?

look at you

i want them to look at you, too

i paint you and it’s your painting

can i put your painting in a museum?

sell it for all the money we would need to escape to the scenery that suits us best for being and doing?

i sell it and your painting is what everyone wants to see

the visitors come from every place to visit

they approach your painting softly

tilting their careful heads against their non-dominant shoulder

folding their arms or placing their hands behind their backs (the best stance for taking you in)

they examine your communion of color

the german woman whispers to her husband, “das ist sehr schlecht”

because du bist sehr schlect

my prayer is to paint you,

a saint, you,

in a sanctuary of your colors

what colors can i use when i paint you?

your painting reflects the light i feel when you’re around

i want them to feel you, too

can i rub glitter on your canvas?

can i use brush strokes to brush your hair and stroke your temples and tell you “you shine”?

i paint you 

and it pains me to admit

i’ll never paint another masterpiece

for as long as 

your painting hangs in a museum

greeting the world in the languages of wander

and hope

and glitter

they won’t grow tired of coming to visit your painting

and if they do

there’s a monet down the hallway

but monet’s don’t have glitter

and what’s the fun in that

what’s the fun in any of this if i cannot paint you

can i paint you?

can i paint you in oil, water, spices?

can i create the culinary courses on your coarse canvas, 

textured by your own history?

i’ll glide,

i’ll add, never taking away your touch 

*excuse me, sir, please don’t touch the paining

can i paint you abstract?

surrealistic?

impressionistic? 

acrylic? pop? 💅

can i paint your pain?

can i paint your healing and hope?

what color is your love? is it glitter?

i’ve never painted before

but can i paint you?