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blOwing smOke cirCles
by Mainon A Schwartz
Van Gogh made paintings of
my hometown. I was born on
this canvas, near the strip
of yellow paint where he left out
the swaths of wildflowers.
the skyline has been sanctified
by his hues and shades. diurnal
clouds develop haloes, and
float in strokes of innocence.
I recognize the shape of the
hillside, for landscapes once belonged
to my family. Now the footpaths
that led from brushstroke to frame
are indistinct, forgotten.
such details are the casualties
of simplification—the painting
is more peaceful without our graves,
and the night sky swirls mysteriously
above the place our bones should be. 12/20/2003 Posted on 12/21/2003
Copyright © 2025 Mainon A Schwartz
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Rachelle Howe on 12/22/03 at 01:06 AM "such details are the casualties
of simplification—the painting
is more peaceful without our graves,
and the night sky swirls mysteriously
above the place our bones should be." and i couldn't breathe, couldn't move. and i exhaled, finally, when time said that it was okay to do so. when it finally said, yes. incredible. f*cking incredible. |
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