I will paint

my eroded mother,

surrounded by tiny coffins,

trying to climb a ladder to heaven,

her feet

made of wet sand.

I will paint

my earnest father,

trying to juggle sacks of money and his heart,

his hands on fire.

I will paint

the two lovers,

the selves they cannot learn or flee,

the time between kisses growing longer,

the time between lies growing shorter.

I will paint

the sky raining blood,

villagers anxious beneath it,

some wiping the blood

from their children’s foreheads

with shreds of the Mexican flag,

others trying to catch every dropp in soup bowls.

I will paint

what Spain, Paris, Detroit,

California, New York City, Mexico,

each sampled woman, grain and fruit,

have meant to me,

king of gluttony, seated at table,

reaching for knife and fork

as a skeleton waiter whisks away

my unfinished heart.

(from Beneath Our Armour)