Self Portrait as a Gay Man

The brush, its bristles thick

with oil and pungent

pigment, pink or purple,

bayonets across the canvas,

blanketing the background

with the beginnings of a sunrise.

Rinse.

Hues of greens and blues

wave beneath in voluptuous lines

curving along the horizon

and hugging the white space

that will soon be the beach.

Rinse.

Pour in the sand, about two thirds,

cover the shoreline with a thin layer,

let the cobalt and seafoam

blend into the beige,

then let the water dry.

I look out the window

at the sunset

and try to mimic what I

see while imagining

what I want. The rays of the sun

filter deceivingly through the paned

glass providing false warmth

and elucidating memories

of the skin. Heat,

thick and unbearable

if not for the breeze

coming in from the ocean,

sand blistering the bottoms of my feet

before splashing with relief

into the cool tide,

the rough hot sand transforming

into a malleable sludge

between my toes.

As the paint parches, I dream

of summers past,

retreats to faraway lands,

parties in paradise,

swimming with strangers

while being served spirits

both of mind and of bottle.

I sip my sangria without looking

at my glass, my attention stuck

between a sunrise and a sunset,

reality and what was once reality

but is now only a half-painted

reimagining.

The canvas, now dry,

asks for something more,

and once again the brush chooses a color

beginning a second coat of oil paint

with a hope of willing

a new reality into existence.