First, I paint myself.
To please my mother, I sketch Shirley Temple curls.
To please my father, I give them Liz Taylor's hue.
The face is almost oval,
the nose aquiline,
jaw strong and forehead high
with a light tone to the skin;
no red or yellow suspect tint.
In order not to disappoint,
I fashion multi-colored eyes.
Next, I paint a place.
Sunset lakes swim an aqua sky
and frame me on the wooded hill.
A faint figure dots the distance.
There's a clapboard house,
perhaps a dog, two children playing--
one must be a red-haired girl.
One child will go to church, the other won't.
I'll have neighbors, but not too close
this town that's not too large.
Then I give life to form.
He approaches,
holding out his hand to mine.
Our children run to join us.
They never fight.
The glinting sun never sets.
We never cry and part.
I don't grow old alone.
This priceless painting
hangs now in the Louvre
on a newly renovated floor
between Mona Lisa and Starry Night.
My parents gaze at it and smile.
They are happy.*
*published in Explorations 2000
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