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.