the peeled shells to feed the mad waterfalls in your head.
Today your fingers will feel pain without paint.
You cover the canvas with the Mother’s face.
Today you will remove the clothespins from the clothesline.
You will need the rope and the sunshine of your studio.
You will need a sturdy chair and the ceiling fan.
Today will mark another birthday as you swing lightly in midair,
suspended like the butcher’s meat back in the city of Van.
This poem appeared in Poetry City, USA, Vol. 6.