By Lacey Buycks
He’s already finished
the piece, a gift for his
mother who burns for
the acrylic aroma,
the gritty paint her
thin hands run over.
The poet does not paint well,
when his fingers
are estranged to the
buoyancy of a brush.
His mind lingers too long
and the bristles
leave a ruby splotch
on the page.
On the canvas,
a dirt path leads
to a forest of pines.
To the poet though,
they look more like upside-
down broomsticks.
In the middle,
a fiery splatter covers
a boulder overtaken with
wisteria and sage.
He curses, overturns his chair
and puts a fist
through the canvas.
The red is gone,
a gaping hole in its place.
The poet takes a pencil
and on the back
he writes, “your son,”
he titles it, “Holy Hell.”
About the author:
Lacey Buycks is a writer and poet. Some of her work, including Red Bristles and Citrus Season, has been featured in Erato Magazine's first issue, Bloom.