Notes About The Poem
Theodora Markovitch Chops her name in 1926 

Dora Maar With Green Fingernails
I live because in my life
you paint love as surreal art
it’s my bruised heart
scorned, sacred vows of a saint
true lovers’ art
this, you paint…
It appears as me
with altered appeal and
tints of pain,
tainted in taffeta’s
crisp and stylish
Primped and fashioned, contour of course
My soulful eyes
fitting for a muse
my lips are shut,
and my finger pressed
against a smudge messed
I want to shout
let me out of this demure affair
In that case, I pleasure in my nails
Hand splayed, what’s red is green,
Revlon’s recipe
on sharpened tips
secrets we keep, and so what
if my complexion pewters
I’m just an object
An object of veneration
where pain and beauty coexist
Gone direly insane, you’ll find out
I am a photo finish, a diarist
reclusive in my personal struggles
and creative expression
and in this I conclude
that I’ll outlive you
in solitude
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