by Kalyn L.P. Gensic
In the darkness of New Jersey’s January
we awoke to a warm southern landscape
on the once pristine walls of the hallway.
My brother was eight with avante garde tendencies.
He colored inside the lines sometimes, but mostly
he favored spastic sweeps void of such formalities.
At school, he colored his hand’s contour like a peacock,
upsetting the steady rhythm and rows of turkeys
adorning the third grade Thanksgiving party.
Back with us, he colored a monster with fuchsia tinted wax,
prey racing to sanctuary beyond the paper’s edge.
The day he colored cedar trees cerulean blue,
the wrinkle separating Dad’s eyebrows deepened
at the refrigerator door display. Trees are green, son.
On that frigid morning when we entered the hallway
to find the scarlet sun and indigo hills,
Mom was furious, but she never painted it away.
I saw her staring into its sunset, her eyes following
the strokes from the ceiling to the floor.
Kalyn L.P. Gensic is a visual artist from Ardmore, OK. Formerly, she was the art and poetry editor of The Shinnery Review. Some of her recent work is forthcoming in Ilya’s Honey and Neat.