were I an artist
               I’d do something beautiful
& meaningless

were I a painter
& could distend light
across empty skies
I would paint the bodies of Christ
as they rolled in their eternal
loves & agonies
& I would paint the bodies & the pains
of all men
& all women too
who suffered
with bent iron
growing through their wrists
like lilies
arising from the earth

were I a worker of ash
               I would trace your body
in white chalk
on the black dress
you don’t wear anymore

were I able to transcribe more than my own pain
I would write about you
& the way you smile
when you pretend to sleep
or how you curl
around your wine
as though I was a thief
& not a worshipper at all

were I able
I’d turn up ugly
& disguised to my own exhibits
& loudly proclaim the artist’s failures
& demand to see the manager
call the artist a goddamned whore
a sell-out
until security threw me out
with free spirits inside me
to replace the spirit of art
I left on some
bathroom floor
or other