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When Red first saw me in the
ticket booth
did he recognize the blank
pages
he’d searched the carnivals
for? I barely
remember my life before
him—my body
was transparent. I stood in
the sun
all day and at night I
washed with strong soap.
When people looked at my
legs or the place
my breasts met, they saw
only flesh.
I became his canvas. Each
prick of the needle
brought me closer to him. I
loved the smell
of wet inks—color nothing
could wash away.
My costume hides the most
beautiful parts
—wild roses opening at my
nipples
and tendril vines curling
around my hips.
They say this life’s hard,
but I hold myself
up like a Renaissance
painting and smile.
Nothing compared to that
first year with Red
trying to lie still while he
knelt over me,
gazing into those drawings.
His skin was
so smooth. At first I was
just black lines.
Then he mixed inks in small
porcelain bowls
and held them to the light.
When he worked
near the bone, I practiced
breathing slow.
I felt the colors seep into
my blood
my legs growing sacred with
the Blessed Virgin’s
life. After he finished the
Annunciation
I prayed on one knee, but
once he began
the Ascension I could only
stand
or lie. He prided himself
on George
Washington’s portrait above
my chest,
corners of the American flag
draped
over each shoulder. That
dollar stare helped
balance the saints poised on
arms, angels
floating down my legs,
scrolls and butterflies
circling my ankles. I never
had children.
His masterpiece was “The
Last Supper”
across my back. The night
he finished Christ,
His arms outstretched, Red
lit candles
and rubbed my skin with oils
until I gleamed
like a stained-glass window
in the dark.
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