THE PAINTING I HAVE NEVER PAINTED
BY CATI PORTER
You draw me into your world in vivid-hued suckling stings
as you advance your allowance from my breast
through one cracked
Each milking stroke of your tongue implies an impulsive
crimson areolas; phthalocyanine green veins.
vaults shudder under your adulation.
I think you may be falling
from my lap, you have grown so large.
Ever since you were first in my
arms I have wanted
to paint you this way:
slim arc of white
like a pale slip
of moonsmile at my breasts, your lips embracing
one pink nipple, your toes curled to the other.
In my Pieta,
you are god
and I am your mother. Supple flesh,
heft, painterly abstraction.
But you grow so
fast the memories of your infancy
feel like rain, coming
going in sudden showers, in a drizzle, in a silken mist.
line of time draws you steadily away
from my breast. I portion
the coins of my milk, drop for drop,
as you turn my breasts'
outsides in, empty pockets.
Though I may break like the desert,
turn fissure, turn crack, turn canyon,
gape, my thousand
kiss you with their wounds.