© 2018 Susan Jennings

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susan jennings


A mystery
of sweat and intuition
strong and quiet
(like himself)
His painting has wings,
it is an angel.

Scarred skin,
it shows each painful slash
Wears them like courage.
And inside,
inside is light --
glowing, pouring out,
consuming me, making my
cry for it -

And I beg him to take me,
make me glow also
Cut me if necessary,
make me beautiful too.

Crushed down into my fingerprint
is the scent of this love's fluid,
linseed oil;
Intertwined is the scent of another.
And at his hands,
I too
have wings.