The Painted Lady

The Painted Lady

Some say
she was made a fool of
by the man that she loved
back
in a day that wasn't wrinkled.

Some say he stepped out
and broke her heart
with the skin of a white lady.

Caucasian strangulation
of a darker skinned soul.

Maybe.

Some say she was just crazy.
Painted her face
whiter than a bed sheet
and prowled around town
in her Broadway Best.

Maybe she couldn’t be tamed.
Maybe she wouldn’t be named,
and blamed an ignorant society
for not understanding
the Artistry of her soul.

Fuchsia garments and
white lace gloves
never allowed her pigment
to show.

Nobody knows why
she painted her skin.
Nobody knows why she chose
to sleep with a dark face in,
yet rise out in paper-white.

That is her secret.
And she will keep it.

Tucked deep inside her
Aqua-marine, turquoise green
Lavender-rose,
bright yellow clothes
with wigs of flowing f aux hair.

Yes, the Painted Lady will
keep her secret where
she lies,
for she has died,
and taken her artistry to the grave.