I feel warm when I remember how we joked about the huge paintings with golgota.
the only small one, with the park
where the branches glared upon a mother and her child,
mesmerized you
(that was our child.)
the painting was at the end of the room,
right after all the hideous canvases
and mothers.
(the mother was god.)
inside the room there were
no windows (no fathers.)
no hope,
no pain.
from outside I could only see the child.