The Mexican’s Poem


He sat for me, as sitters do

awkwardly, aware of his body as something new.

It touched me so: his foot that curled

around the stool

to find a hold against the world.

I traced with my fingers

bone, along his face

touching and fell, it lingers.

The turbulence, I drew

in his eyes yielding; slowly

drawn into their avenue.

His hands I sculptured

mmmm those hands, faceted

suddenly writing feels uncultured.

Have we but world enough, and time

I would erect life

into this portrait of mine

He lights another cigarette

and sings with his birds

what he has given me

to paint and to write

now and always

adds the moon to dark night.

Evonne Ghemmo  14 September 1999


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