Jul 2016
When afternoons would ******
a shank of sun across the kitchen,
and dust would loop and swarm like dumb bugs,
and warring bedroomed voices
pinned me cruciform,
cheek moored against the cool wall,
counting silences to find the storm,
sometimes, the white frame of Hands with Bouquet
would graze my head, its knowable
art like an unction, its thousand
possibilities intact.
a shank of sun across the kitchen,
and dust would loop and swarm like dumb bugs,
and warring bedroomed voices
pinned me cruciform,
cheek moored against the cool wall,
counting silences to find the storm,
sometimes, the white frame of Hands with Bouquet
would graze my head, its knowable
art like an unction, its thousand
possibilities intact.
"Hands with Bouquet" is a painting by Picasso, almost child-like in its simplicity. I found the poem years ago on another site, but have lost contact with the writer. I love this style of poem, one complex sentence that always knows where it is going, the way the lines roll on to the conclusion, and how perfectly complete it is.
