Misnamed

 

Shaded lines through male hands
is the blend of she and his, not hers,
swirling through known picture frames
and all nod and move on.

She never was in the thick of it.
She slipped in sometimes,
tried on a few paint-strokes
borrowed from the masterpieces everyone stops to look at.

She accorded shades of red, arched limbs and full lips,
skin alight with whispers and licked flames
because this is the palette of the sun spilled.

The black of smoked blades left him astride
a firebrand, hands scorched, grasping at her.
The knives were inside, a chosen silhouette.

An artist sees the sun ablaze, blinding, but blind.
Quietly, adorned in bands of scrypture,
she leaves, an enigma unanswered.