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54 Body Painting At night he makes me his canvas. My nipples become faces, my navel a ball tossed between children.Then animals! A giraffe rooted in my pelvis that twists its neck to graze on the leaves of my spine, a dog that sniffs at the nest of hair. Coyotes howl on each shoulder.The paint is thick as semen. How do I possess these vibrant colors, confident geometries? He follows the logic of color, knows that my arms are yellow, shoulders purple, that a broad red stripe proclaims the center of my back. Like a dentist finding the right tool, he picks the brush. Some fine and flexible, some fanlike, asking his hand to arc. He knows the sensation of each, and my skin answers, tickled, stroked. Then I pull him toward me, not afraid of smearing. ...

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