Jess Bowe

Converse into my eyes, into my face.

Dramatize your eyes and mouth

and furrowed brow so I know what

you ask and I see how you feel.

Make hand puppets into my dancing

space and I think your hands are like art,

like fingerpaints. Colors like red and pink

and green and gray. Mix your colors

and my eyes won’t leave your covered

canvas. The world should come to see

your museum and not-so-famous paintings,

just the ones I love. Don’t look down,

but embrace the beauty you bring

to the world and the poems you create

in midair. Spell it out for the rest of us

who aren’t so lucky to learn

your appreciation through vast vibrations.

The majority feels nothing move,

but the music encompasses and inhabits

your soul, and I see your toes tap.

Decorate my world and open my eyes

so we can open our eyes and twist

our fingers and learn

your digit-stroked story.