Dazzling

In the Art Room

Wednesdays, after classes,
in my father's old shirt,
I work late in the art room
with the two Ts.

We drink bad instant coffee
for art and wakefulness
while the Severed Heads
roll from the radio.

The art room smells
like damp cloth, tempera,
rust and wet brushes;
a cool space
with a dripping.tap.

It is our final year of school.
We pretend we are not stressed
as, inch by hard inch,
our Major Works.are forged.

I have learned that I''m not
as good as my friends.
The pain is a secret.
Ambition, drive and ideas
I have, but these things are not
talent.

Trina's sexual flowers bloom
bruise-purple, inked with tattoos;
Tracy's crying victim
is profiled in varnished
newspaper cuttings,

but my gaudy self portrait
is an ill-fitting mask
behind which a girl searches
a stretch of prime canvas
where she cannot
be found, or shown.