Framed And Severed Poem by Jenny Kalahar

In a twirl of paint from Salvador Dali's mustache
I am born in oils
my head disconnectedly floating near an ankle
an ear in flight- wingless, searching for a quiet face to land

A bluegreen haze saturates this desert sky to the cluttered horizon
where I see my left arm draped
as bloodless as a mannequin's
upon a golden, melted, one-handed clock
that no longer ticks the world away

Hot, red steam rises from a cracked boulder
where my right arm reaches up like a pale, bare tree.
That hand holds loaded paintbrushes loosely
offering them to some unseen artist
as if I could never comprehend that they might be
my tools as well
a means to draw myself back together
into a brighter, yellow ochre landscape, a viridian woodland
or a burnt-umber autumn afternoon

Those brushes could have been a way
to connect arm to shoulder
head to torso for breathing clear, unclouded inhalations.
I could have painted my legs on sturdy hips to walk
through cool, cobalt waters.
But, no
that unseen artist, forever out of my picture
plays God and keeps me torn apart
and I, poor fool,
never using what I was given,
stay framed and severed—
a woman incomplete
for yet one more bluegreen day