by Sheree La Puma

That part of you that cannot hear me weep.
You’ve forgotten so much, the taste of fruit,
fleshless & green rolling off the tongue.
To that part of you that enjoys bullfights –
who am I but the scent of blood, aged
on canvas, or one pale rose smudged in pink.
A perfect pairing. Run your fingers along
stitch-marks where a war once raged.
My body. Your hunger. Take a seat. Here is
where you learn to paint on flesh. That
milky-pink scar where breasts used to be, color
me “La Maja,” the girl you once loved.