7 of 30.

I started seeing in orange

when they barred the windows

and every flight of stairs

ended with a painting.

One professor asked us to describe

Pollack’s work to someone who

couldn’t read.

I would rather describe them to

someone who couldn’t see.

We are all dying to scream

but have no mouths to make sound.

I remember wanting ice cream once.

A friend to sit under the dining room table with.

When I was 8 and had a bowl cut,

I would put on my pink leotard

and drag a chair into the middle of the room

for twirling and somersaulting over.

Dad did not look up from his daytimer,

mom kept cutting onions,

and the boys only stopped playing

playstation to tell me to stop

shaking the tv with my fatness.

I knew they were jealous and danced

better than before.

The storm of a man who thought better of himself

than to weep with brushstrokes

makes me wonder if my stories should be more static

and less staten island.

My beginnings are void and dark and the spirit of God

moving on the face of my deep.

That trip to Riker’s island

reminded me of Dante’s Inferno

where everything turned orange

like the hands of a clock peeling fruit.

Poets and prophets peed the bed once.

Presidents were afraid of clowns.

There is a window in every painting

and if the light is bright enough the glass

reflects the viewer.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in 30 in 30, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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