What’s a Painting?
Lines disappeared and the blue overtook the vision as far as the peripherals would stretch. Sit down. Stand up. Sit again. Stare. Is the vision of your, their, mine and her bodies, intertwined, struggling to grasp and hold some ounces of air- born yet? My mother has photographs of me, which she printed out from Instagram. They are all over her home. All I want is to know what she smells like. What is the white line of clouds the planes leave behind anyways? Are you my mother? Your skin syncs to mine quite nicely, and your pale belly makes me think that the sun doesn’t like you very much. I didn’t want to see her jump, and the color green -the right kind of sappy, muddy forest green, is really hard to mix. I want to put its light in my mouth. No hawks left in my organs. The surgery didn’t help and your face was never that important. One stroke for the chin, scrape away for the bottom lip, to show the shadow. Simple. I too, had children I looked after, forty of them at a time. Passionfruit wont leave my head, I like, too much, how it fills my ears with dance sounds. Get up. Hold five brushes in one hand, watch you grab all the kids on TV. Amy, with her sweaters can say hard sentences, but even her voice sometimes breaks. I cant understand the skin that moves on the screen, too fast and I hold my face, to make sure it is not like them. But it doesn’t feel any different. Now my mother cries louder then all the babies I ever had the chance to hold.