Dora Maar

(Picasso’s lover)

Honestly, Pablo, 

you make me laugh.

The world 

gasps 

over your every

brushstroke,

  sighs 

at whatever blue 

you choose.

  Everyone wants 

a Picasso.

You make love 

      with paint on your hands— 

  paint stains my body—

  then depict me as a monster. 

I am not your mother, 

sweetheart.

Just another woman 

who loves you.

Sulk in your studio, 

if you wish.

The world you create 

is more colorful

than your own life. 

Is that the problem? 

I’m not enough for you? 

Honestly, Pablo,

you’re such a child.