Ruminate
When nights steal in I paint
a house filling with water.
I make the exit transparent,
front door gray and ghostly beneath
seawater creeping past the baseboards,
sloshing over the table,
dishes awash in salt.
Me and the rest of my body
are waiting for you at the end
of this, creature fear,
as the house-tide rises, almost full
as I prolong, splatter on the frothy swell,
the murky shallows,
glassy waves that obscure the room—
A finite palette will stump you,
some say. Watch me:
all the shades of blue I can cut
into white, layer on and scrape off.
Prussian, cobalt,
sheer aquamarine,
depths on depths on depths.
This thirst to conjure disaster.
What should I call it? Like dropping
a new penny into a well—
I could paint the penny,
copper in any kind of light.
Or the well, pitch canyon,
dark, and limitless.
Covet
She painted pictures
of everything she wanted
and never stopped painting.
I want new leather shoes,
a swoosh of patent black
on canvas. Vases and purses.
A red enamel pan. Beautiful
austerity. This catalogue of desire.
Want in any color, always
the ideal size. A house of things
with no things inside.
I want a perfect pink jacket.
I want a bronze singing bowl
& the little hammer
that makes it sing. I want
an indoor tree that won’t wilt
in this poor light. Then I want to be
a pocket knife, one little tool
that can house so much.
I want to smash the piggy bank
& pillage its silver innards.
The million other lives
I could have lived
in any different dress. The woman
I could have been,
a different silk scarf
cinched around my pretty neck.
Theresa Sullivan earned her MFA in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College, where she was the Poetry Editor for LUMINA Journal. She was a 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee, and her writing has recently appeared in The Fairy Tale Review. She lives and writes near Boston. www.tinyletter.com/theresasullivan
photo credit: stephanie roberts Twitter Instagram SoundCloud
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