Your face,
eight feet by nine
on sanded willow,
could devour me.
I am caught up
in the breadth
of your lips,
in the pigments
chosen to depict
your skin.
I have been standing
here for hours,
simply staring,
when the museum steward
pauses on a tour,
says “She always
find admirers.”
This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
