Last
Painting in Paris
Every morning.
I pull back my hair
gaze into the mirror and see walls
that need washing. need painting.
walls that are peeling. each layer
a different color. some show through
and make an artistic statement
about failure. where someone
started painting one color. never
finished. then, spread thick Spackle
covering up holes made by the plumber
made by an alcoholic boyfriend.
an angry lover. not by me.
I can’t make holes. can only swear
mauve
is turning yellow, blues
into shadows. I should paint
these cracks caused by fault lines
the rusty water stains. creepers
turning hairy green in sunlight.
the cobwebs
I want to leave.
they remind me of gossamer
by poetic choice. but more
like ropes. I need them
to climb the walls at night.
Copyright © 2001 Mia
