the moon is the girl

You were the first one–
he took a knife to your palette,
and gouged out your cheeks
he sliced your face into orange wedges
and left peels of hair dripping from the clock quarters imposed on your face.
he hollowed out your eyes and plastered them to the table
where you could see everything
or nothing
tick tick ticking
times, perspectives, shifts
she sat waiting, (hands folded, knees together)
patiently, eagerly
reading re-reading, painting him too.
At the end of the day, she put a hand to her cheek, looked in the mirror and saw the moon
all the pockmarks and craters of the first cubist painting
and she was moved, for the first time
someone had seen the truth of her,
the two there were of her.

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