Shari Diane Willadson

Self Portrait

     I have seven so far; there may be an eighth to add to the pile of rubber-banded craft paper in the back of the closet, but maybe not. The first two are yellowed and cracked; I take them out often, tape each corner to the wall, run fingers over the black paint. She said we had to make them in the cold room on the far side of the house; our nipples would be hard and put nice, clear cherry pits on the paper. This was her fourth, my first. When she died, I looked, but never found her other three; one self-portrait for every ten years, but I would have liked to see hers from when she was ten.

     We undressed and shivered, taped our canvasses to the wall and stirred the paint. We marked our wrists, nipples and thighs. She painted the Easter grass between her legs; I would have to wait until my next self-portrait for that, she said. We closed our eyes and leaned into the wall. She counted to ten and we stepped back. I remember blushing at the sexuality of those black marks; like I had said a private wish into a tape recorder and everyone could hear what was inside of me. One of her wrists had run and I put my finger there to stop it, left my mark on her. We washed and dressed while the paint dried. We rolled them up and placed rubberbands at the middle. "Keep these in the back of your closet," she said, "this is what we are."

Shari Diane Willadson has been writing for over twenty years. She has been published in The Astrophysicist's Tango Partner Speaks, Moonshade Magazine, Poetry Cafe, and Poetry Magazine. She lives in Washington State, USA, with her husband and daughter.