face paint

i find myself sitting in your metal folding
chair. we're outside at the church carnival 
with your palettes sprawled out on the picnic table
every year you would come to do
face painting, bringing your totes of acrylics,
the artist's briefcase. i read the color
names on each tube: midnight & mustard seed &
flamingo & fuchsia. teal me, navy blue me.
the touch of brush to skin.
is this one of those dreams where you're my uncle
but don't look anything like him? 
face canvas-- i sewed your skin gossamer.
you dip the brush, cool strokes against my face. 
i forget what we're making me. i forget how old i'm supposed
to be. i count my fingers & assume that as an age. 
all ten of them, yes?
outside the grass was damp between my toes. swishing
the brush in mason-jar-water between colors. 
i too painted faces a few times & all the girls 
always wanted butterflies-- purples & blues
& pinks. are you making me a butterfly?
will it make off with my face? i'll leave
the carnival as a dream person who is myself
but looks nothing like him. i set up on
a street corner in the city i've never moved to.
perching criss-cross legs with the sidewalk square 
as a palette, wash my brush in the storm grates. 
will you let my make your face into a fox?
i ask as pedestrians amble by, confused but
compliant, laying themselves down in front
of me. i tell them who i'm supposed to be as 
i draw the brush steady across their skin. 
there is no better surface to paint on than 
the human body. the softness, 
the slight breathing motion-- i paint confetti swirls 
& dragon fire. one school carnival 
i painted a boy's face full of scales & his
mother came back to me asking
what did you do to him what did you do to him?
i'll make no excuses for the paints. they 
do what they will. occasionally kids would ask my uncle to 
paint watches. he loved the details--
the color of the buckle-- the clock face
glossy in the sun-- the time. paint the time
on your wrist-- not you face of course
what time do you want to 
spend your whole day? i think i'd like
7pm at night. that's when i eat dinner
alone at my desk. it's still light outside in july. 
the red hips of the fireflies paint everything
sunset without permission. where do they
make their palettes? i'm hoping you can help
me though, so i found your chair, your metal 
folding chair. just say 
yes i am your uncle.
it will make me feel better for the time being.
i want you to paint & not tell me what you're
making. i will tell you that i like
the colors cobalt & sea foam green. 
do what you will. take your time. 
it's all 7pm anyway.