They are relics now,
standing side by side in crumpled parchment
skin, flesh-colored stockings, sleeves and masks
left too long in the fold pile
slightly damp and scented of lavender,
sunshine and mildew.
They are sweeping with their skirts,
boot toes peeking out, laces frayed and tied
with fingers made of gnarled
cypress roots.
These are not the sculptures dressed in fancy hats and
printed scarves and lipstick painted on
with trembling hands
only to escape a moment later
to the tributaries flowing
from their mouths
These are drawings done on old newsprint
and paper bags, in fat brown crayons and dollar store
markers, splashed with paint and kool-aid,
the corner signed in careful script
“I love you”
and the names all in a row
too precious to forget.
Someday soon, they will be framed
and buried for posterity
stone plaques bearing the names and dates of the artists’
residence
mark their place in time, but for now
there is coffee to be drunk
and stories to be told
and when we look down and see our skin is
creased, and gold with age
across the backs of our clasped hands, we will sigh, and tuck a strand of graying hair behind our ear
and for a moment, glimpse a picture
of the things that we’ll become.