The painter

They say i am not a painter

While I close my eyes with clean hands

And mix the colors of the sky and sea

Into your brown skin and beard

Into the white flowers of the jungle

And the rhythms of the night

I am becoming a new

Hardly a person yet

Just a chance of a person

All my memories show through the skin of my face

There’s no way this body can bow to destiny

When I am the shape of thunder the temperature of lightning

I am your woman,

your hands

Your longing for order

You are my man

My voice

My solitary hunter