I am not made of paper.
That’s what they want now.
Simple sheets, thin, manageable, slick to the touch.
Printed only on one side, shiny and bold.
The image can become reality, they say,
Such a strange flip from the days when art imitated life,
But we are not made of paper.
It takes work.
This cutting and pressing
-or is that suppressing?-
to render ourselves flat,
to strip away the flaws that make us ourselves,
They called it character once,
Yet sun and wind conspire to undo me,
reminding me that I am flesh,
caressing the roundness of solid form,
enticing perspiration and deep breaths with each stroke.
There will be no holding the pose,
I will leave none of my pieces on the editing room floor,
Life is only lived in three dimensions
through sweat and fumbles and the kind of laughter that makes tears spill
and faces crinkle,
with communion between our glances and the sky and the dirt between our toes.
For we will never be made of paper.