To Paint a Stone
If Georgia would have painted me,
she would paint two stones
in the high desert, a red dust,
sage brush, cypress background.
Look how the light hits its roundness
a gradient of beige, white, gray,
look how they ripple smooth and rough.
My two buttocks she would turn them
into one of her still lifes, an abstract.
My body has a life of its own
cellulite, dimples, fat, it moves
when I move, it has never held
a still life, but I know Georgia
would capture my moments, and
in doing so, she would let my body go,
undefined, interpreted like a language
the world has forgotten how to speak.
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