The Work of Art A crazy addict artist has filled his every space     with intricate mandalas, then one by brilliant patterned one he makes them flame and dust. The others leave. I know Creation's process, speak my pointed words, beyond recall. He smiles with sharp seduction.   I follow up the twisted street 'til in a silent doorway he turns and beats my hands. The hennaed marriage blessings are painted on my palms, inverted Moorish shadows have scorched their back, but he's tattooing them with scars: a work of art. I am immured the other side and cannot hear his lashes, or any crying.   Previous poem Next poem