I’m painting her room
the lightest sky I can find –
so clear, even the clouds would forsake
their names just to glide across it’s face.
Gray drop-cloths are its land brushes –
the trees that sway gently,
up and down, to cover and change
those unsightly memories
and runs I can’t escape.
My daughter’s furniture is gone,
sold or taken away.
Eighteen years of phone calls,
clothes and hair barrettes
were gathered, parcelled and moved.
Now, the room goes to its primitive state.
Lines are disconnected and gone.
Posters moved on
leaving their tiny
teeth marks in the wall …
And I’m tempted to skip the brush,
like the child she was, over their places.
Collection: Painting with Fingers