just moments before in a stark white museum
echoing silence from ceiling to floor, sterile and bare
but this breathtaking scene on the wall
this architecture of layered blues
with violent red
scarlet tresses climbing off the canvas
in smears just asking to be licked
and her father’s voice whispering rules into her left brain
without hesitation, her arm reached out
fingers splayed tips exposed, despite the alarms
she expected the paint to be wet
months before in a lucid dream
his beautiful arms bare, brown and smooth
in the burning barren, desert sun
ancient tribal tattoos
in raised patterns cut into his forearms
curved by the sepia tone landscape and a river only heard
she, without contemplation
she reached out with burning fingers to slide slowly
across his wet skin
and it mattered not
who was this man
years before in a child’s curious wander
spying a soft winged moth the size of her heart
deconstructing with awe and innocent wonder
in powdered patterns of camouflage and a perfectly round eye
staring back and taunting
until her finger traced the image
and then leaving behind an iridescent dust
it flew up and away with an impressionist's smile
drawn on her mind
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