Poem After an Iteration of a Painting by Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, Destroyed by the Artist Herself

A few times a week, Yiadom-Boakyepainstakingly cuts oil paintings she believesaren't up to snuff. Instead of re-primingthe canvas, she reduces it to 2 X 2½-meterpieces. She begins again. This isn'tan ars poetica. Once, I made love in daylight.

It was a Saturday or Sunday in Novemberor July. My lover and I stumbled towardthe bedroom, turning our mouthsand our stalk-like waists. I don't rememberif I undressed myself. The edge of the bed feltprecipitous. I've forgotten almost everything

about that day except the competing limbsof kissing, walking, fucking—how confusedmy feet were until, at last, they did nottouch the floor. It was my fault, I wanted solittle. This is not a love poem. Not a catalogueof attempts. Yiadom-Boakye doesn't set her figures

in time or place. They are composites of photographs,magazine cut-outs, and the occasional life drawing.She doesn't call them portraits. When she scissorsher failures into unmendable bits, she aimsto deter scavengers and thieves.In the room where I write this, my hands

smell like Ginger Gold apples. For hours,I've been looking out the window—staringinto the hallway we took to my bedroom. I knowthe sky is a blue wall. I know the wallswere sky blue. Memory paints them yellow.I'll keep this revision. The rest I've thrown away.