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The Artist, a poem by Mary Sexson



The Artist


She paints the room

in her underwear


freeing her arms

from the confinement


of cloth, loosening

the notion of sleeves


and muttering while

she swathes the walls


in the new colors of autumn.

There are no boundaries


to this canvas, and the paints

that she brushes on


are unending, as if

she has called in all


her markers, and whatever debt

was owed her was paid


in oils and pastels, a palette

of tempera, and golden acrylics.


Her movement is sustained by this,

as if she is fed on the uncertainties


of time mixed with paint.  She knows

the minutes need to be counted,


the brush strokes calculated

as she turns to another empty wall.



Mary Sexson is an award-winning poet with two full-length books and two collaborative chapbooks. Her work has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies, and she has participated in many public poetry projects in Indiana. She has poems archived in the INverse collection of Hoosier Poets, at the Indiana State Library. Sexson has six Pushcart Prize nominations and a Best of the Net. Find her at masexson.wordpress.com and at Poetry Sisters on Facebook.