What Is Revealed As Light

Behind me our empty bed
is abandoned to the silent house.
No river sounds, no sounds of longing,
no cry that might be joy or terror.

Working loosely,
I block in the dark shadows.
The light spaces leap
into being.

My hands are stained with burnt umber,
yellow ochre, mars black. I put the shadows
down and watch the unpainted shapes
take form.

What is revealed then.

A white house in the woods, near a lake.
Dark cypress trees that threaten to sway
in a wind you can almost feel.

A long coin of sepia light,
ribboned with black water.

Now the brushes lean in a tin can,
wet and spent. A bad husband,
I mistreat them, leave them
splayed and broken.

In the kitchen a simple table
holds our plates, a glass of cold water,
a broken loaf, my hard
and empty arms.




(Thanks to Sulpher River Literary Review for taking this poem)