Cute

1.

She told me, “They’re cute.”

Mom always said, “They’re cute.”

I snapped, “Bitch, I’m not painting self-portraits,”

and so she asked if I needed to get laid.

The answer was no but I fucked her anyway,

mostly to stop thinking about my mother.

2.

I think that I am cute

because I was often

told that I am cute.

I think that cute

is childish. I do not

want my art to be cute

and I do not want her

to hang it on the fridge.

3.

Once, when we were naked she sweetly called me Darling,

just like Mom called me when I helped her with the baking.

I scraped four bloody lines across her back in retribution.

Later, I painted her shapely scab-lines across a bronze canvas

and called it art. She did not call it cute.

Finally, she has learned her lesson.

4.

Mom and I never had sex.

That’s the main difference

between what I’ve got here

and what I had then.

5.

She cooks and she cleans the house up pretty nicely.

She manages the bills with money her father left her

and she quit smoking because of my asthma.

I mostly focus on painting.

She always knocks before she enters my studio

and she often surprises me with exotic lotions

and skimpy negligee.

I mostly focus on painting.

6.

I mostly focus on painting

because I can’t focus on her.

When I do, I focus on her dinners

and the mopped floors.

Then I focus on my mother’s ashtrays—

unused because of my asthma.

I try to focus on her

sweet smell and on her perky tits.

I try to focus on her bronze skin

but I can only focus on the luke-warm

bathtub, on the red drops covering

her pale skin, on my father’s scream.

7.

About my paintings,

My mother always said

They’re cute.

If she could just appreciate my art

then she would be different;

then things would be different.

Then I could save her.