Work of Grace

Slender fingers and modest palms
are perfect for a work of grace.
She dips and washes them in olive oil,
a family ritual to soften the touch.

Cold, colder than I,
brushed stainless, rigid flat,
four feet off the ground on a table
I levitate with toes pointed sideward,
naked, far past humility.

My smile is the shadow of memory.

She can fix that,
and the bruising too,
the missing hair,
dark circles, and
all that glass.

From photographs
and tender conversation,
she will express her art, her love
with rouge, lipstick, and foundation.

The cooler growls,
drowns out our intimacy;
she kicks it in the same dent.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Work of Grace

  1. ozymandiaz says:

    the art of artistry in art
    or something like that
    great write

  2. keithecho says:

    Ozy, Thanks. The wheel turns.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s