Miss Blue

 

Miss Blue

The blue plank like a body
at the beach, half-buried in sand.
A woman’s body.
Her color is a noon-day shade of blue,
gift of the Pacific, surf’s daughter
bleached blond by sun and water
with feminine whorls of grain,
sea grass atop the head,
starfish for modesty where the moss grows,
shark teeth for toes.

Every driftwood has its destiny.
My job is to help it along,
to bring grain to life
with sandpaper and knife
beginning at my workshop
where I sandpaper my blue board selectively,
respecting privacy
with varying pressure to make smooth
the forehead, cheek and breast,
maintaining mottled freckles
across the chest.

The next step, while
rubbing linseed oil with a rag,
the wood seems to quicken.
I feel a twitching at my fingertips.
A cough, a trickle of seawater
from the crack of two lips
and she sits up! A blue lady,
blinking knothole eyes.

Sweet Jesus, she says, I almost
drowned. Where’s Paul?
“Who is Paul?” I ask.

Mr. Gauguin, of course,
she says, the painter. In Tahiti.
It’s his blue dye.
His colors could vivify.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, “but Paul Gauguin
died a hundred years ago.”
Just like him, says Miss Blue,
not to tell me the news.
I’ve been jumped by dolphins,
nudged by whales, nibbled by sharks
and nobody says a word.
Never a human touch until yours.
Thank you, by the way.
You have magic hands.
Better than Paul’s.
A pinkish hue comes to her blue.
Our eyes meet. There is heat.
“If you will lie down on your front,”
I say, “I could finish rubbing your backside.”
She giggles, but she settles on my worktable
with a few moans of pleasure
for the oil beneath my fingers.
Weathered beauty to my sight,
woven fibers glow with light.

I bring a mirror.
She examines, front and rear,
and mutters, Oh my Lord.
Look at my ass, flat as a board.
With her coloration
she’s worth a small fortune,
but all I say is, “I think you’re gorgeous.
And I’m falling in love.”
She smiles and says,
You’re sweet, but I must retreat.
I have a mind of the drifting kind.

Look, I could do anything.
She’s captive in my wood shop,
she is my windfall, my life-size doll
but in conscience beyond my reach
as I lash her to my truck
for the trip to the beach.
“You’re going home,” I say, “you blue tart.
And you’re breaking my heart.”

Each driftwood has its destiny.
With my hand on her belly,
I paddle beyond the surf.
We say goodbye
with a grainy kiss.
My summer romance,
brief bliss.

…..

From my book Foggy Dog
Painting by Katie Col