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  • A PORTRAIT OF MELA SUSÉ

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    It’s not the easel red-faced posing bare,

    It’s the brushes that keep me from daubing

    A palette of magentas and iridescent blues,

     

    It’s not the swirl and eddy of your contours,

    It’s that brushes have no bristles to tell

    The legends scrolled across your brow,

     

    It’s not the blackness of your Native hair,

    It’s the yellow days the sun reflected off

    Each strand, the nights caught in hard-bitten rain,

     

    It’s not the chocolate of your Castilian eyes,

    It’s the wistful tears shed for the poet’s lines,

    For the pain they have soaked in,

     

    It’s not the redness of your Grecian lips,

    It’s the thousand tales they might whisper,

    The ones learned through their silence,

     

    It’s not the colors that foil my ambition,

    It’s the canvas that blanches from fear

    That if I painted you, the world would fall in love.

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