I’ve often wished to have
a cubists eyes
making sadness with such
sharp and clear lines—
surely reflecting biting
angles on a canvas releases the
jaws of stinging sorrow from
a wounded heart.

And if I could see the world
so simple and all at once
would I could I displace this
confusion with honored art?

Or is it that I am the canvas and
it’s me I should see
with all my pieces in one
smooth and simple plane—
brokenness and contortions and
silent screams in the
blackwhitegrey that speaks so clearly
to the holes in me.

“After all,” she tells me,
“you could die waiting
for the right
shade of blue...”

10/24/2005

Posted on 10/24/2005
Copyright © 2024 Kate Swearingen