The guts of a dreamer don’t look the same
as those of a thief or a hunter
who kills in the early hours of morning.
Dreamers are rare in this world
that changes every soul.
Release me from the wants of parents.
Turn me back into pure color or line
that flows from the soft tip of a brush,
a table to be leaned on and used, a kite
to be crushed high in a tree,
a bicycle with tires tight with air.

Pieces fall off each time I push past the openings of my heart.
Tight passages of wind razor down its edges, smoothing the sharp points
into roundness. Nothing left to snag or pierce, I am brought back to a child’s
soft realm of possibility. Grounded by a game or a simple afternoon dressed
as a man in my grandfather’s suit.
To be anything at all.
To be limitless, borderless,
have a heart covered in air holes,
open at the top like a flower.
My hand holds a paintbrush
as easily as my eyes can see.
The things we are good at have to save us.
The things we regret must be let go.

The simple form of a figure gathering fruit
is drawn out in black ink then wiped down with blue-
reaching for a second figure, turning to face me,
nude and powerful,
she is who I want to be.
I do not draw myself, I draw the dream of myself
every single time I draw a woman.

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