Untitled Moment in the Middle of the First Night of April
Incense rises up the wall
in front of my mother’s painting
A village clings to a cliff a thousand
white rooms open to the sun
No separation of inside or outside
to me this painting is a memory
Of her, about memory about how something
no longer exists but still exists
Like smoke from an incense stick
it is entirely spent lighter than air
More solid than the air we breathe
my mother painted it from a photograph
To learn perspective
I love how you unfold the story a little at a time…just as yours, mine, everyone’s develops over time. Your technique is exquisite and opaque to the reader as it should be. We see the “trick” but the secret remains just that. Nice, Jeff!
Jeff, I am so glad I have discovered your poems. Thank you.
Beautiful poem. What a fabulous take on memory and how those things -people, places-no longer exist but still remain so very real, present, almost tangible, for the memory keeper.
Killer poem. Absolutely killer.
‘No separation of inside or outside’ — memories are like that, no? Especially ones about parents.