Too Pretty

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

“Look! Witness that I am
the most beautiful of men—
I know where I stand, brother!
Ham-fisted, hornèd—
uncommon bulk in
classical proportions.”
He looks down at his hands and
shifts his weight
with the sound of something
massive and rough,
then looks up again.
“My own sire counselled me
that humility is the midwife
of wisdom, but”
he raises a finger “but
though I concede the logic of it
I’ve always had difficulty
putting it to the test, for…
my very beauty hinders me!”
He laughs loudly,
from the belly.
“My cunning and swift intellect!
My talents and natural gifts!
They all hobble and oppose me in
my quest to heed my sire!”
He laughs more quietly
shakes his head
then feigns a little dance.
“The prettiest / the baddest /
So sexy / it’s madness!”
He grins. Then his expression
shifts, focuses, and he bellows
to the far hills,
“This—divine—visage…”
He waits until
his own roar comes
echoing back
then returns his voice
to a soft gravel rasp.
“This divine visage,
this princely countenance,”
he touches a sandpaper cheek,
“lined with character, shaped and
tempered by bereavement—
colored by every mate
I’ve held close
and nourished and rejuvenated by
every creature
I’ve sired and cradled.”
His head is bowed a
little, as if in thought
but now his eyes roll up
until he locks his gaze from
under a heavy brow on
the artist, that's me,
as I wait for instruction
mimicking patience.
“There is no need
to idealize me—
paint me as I am!”