MISTRESSPIECE

The blank page dares me to paint the blue lined canvas with word pictures no one has ever seen before.

Leonardo gave us Lisa moaning behind a half smile she wore for hours and now forever.

Edvard Munch home alone on acid screamed his way into our collective memories.

But it was Peter Paul Rubin who sang to my soul with the true art of female figures.

No airbrushed anorexic runway model who live on carrots coffee and cocaine.

But real to life women with appropriate rolls and folds soft and pliable.

This is the pallette that I mix my colors from to paint my picture.

Breast that have changed from nursing her children.

A belly that wears scars like medals of honor for the honor of cradling a life, and she's embarrass by this?

When anyone with more brains than a doorknob or more heart that a mosquito knows this only augment her attractiveness.

Because only she can reach into eternity's cache of souls and claim one to form in her womb.

That kind of stretch has to leave its mark.

What to expect when you're expecting says, "by the time the ninth month rolls around ,her heart will have to roll onto it's side to fit in an area that's cramped with creation."

That's a prophecy.

Her heart will always be moved for her child.

Full belly, full breast, can't get a full breath and little feet tap dancing on her bladder.

That's another prophecy.

That child will grow up and try its best to piss her off but she holds it ...mostly.

A night, a day , another long, long night of labour, sweaty , exhausted and spent, and never more alluring.

As the sunrise kisses the coast, she kisses the head of a brand new greedy, nursing person and laughs.

One last prophecy.

She will happily endure what no man could or even would to bring even more children into this world.

As that child nurses they get their first view of the paragon of God's creation.

A baby's eye focusing muscles doesn't work right yet , so their perfect vision, is at the perfect distance , from her perfect face, to the end of her perfect breast .

That's no accident.

That's the beginning of a perfect bond.

The blank page dares me to created a Mistresspiece.

Something way better than any old Masterpiece.

But I realize you've already seen perfection in the face of your own mother or the mother of your children. so I'll just leave the page blank.