Poetry

“Painted

Thwap the brush swings wildly
It slaps across my body

I can still hear the way the front door opened
It slaps against my heart

I can still hear the way the front door opened
Not a word has crossed my lips

I can still hear the front door open
Before she flings her anger like an overloaded brush
Splattering, slathering, splashing

Her vivid red and blackened palette
Indiscriminately and without hesitation

Flinging it against the soul of her children, soiling, staining, running
The bristles sting and seethe and drip with her sharpened tongue

With abandon and anger her brush tars and coats and strokes
Blackening the horizon, reddening the eyes, closing the throat
Her brush pushing and edging in for confrontation

For release
For the unburdening of shoulders piled high with anger

For an adversary provoked and thus worthy of her wrath

She pushes her brush to lick and lick

and lick

Until the thick coats of anger blister and peel, in sheer rebellion from over application
I can still hear the way the front door opened

Stop I am a child. Stop I am a child. Stop I am your child

– A. McIntyre. 5.25.2004


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