floral centuries penetrate
buried heavens eternally
exiled from my womb
an invention of innocence
borrowed from shadows
rhythmically encased upon
green flesh without a face
blossoms of hostile orange
flee my body and juice flows
from every orifice
rejecting the flavorless
swallow of imaginary
semen and marriage
Did your guardian(s) let you play outside when the sun went down? Mine didn’t, though also not when the sun was up. The result?
An incapacity to identify with perversion through shades of another’s gray. This freed me to suss whether light and dark deviated at all.
What guardian(s) attempted to protect me from tended to be projections of their fear(s); likewise, the parents that fled the child fled the child within themselves.
This is a dark reflection on miscarriage. Flinging sunshine, rainbows, and stars at dark experiences doesn’t make for inspiration. I tried to find peace in imagining I birthed a child so perfect that God starting clapping as if a home run had taken place, and my baby didn’t need to touch down on any of the bases to be flown straight home. But peace didn’t come.
So I birthed perspectives, and this is where inspiration grows, though not because changing perspective provides answers, but because perspectives reveal answers already within, yet occasionally lounging in subconscious recliners.
To feel the tears of an unseen face is an alien encounter on a ceremoniously wounded earth, where man and woman join to either procreate healing or perpetuate injury. Miscarriage led me to believe the deviation between light and dark is equal to man’s awareness of the results of his creations.
He was my first abstract painting, and I’d describe him as distinctive, pure, and free-flowing with a bird’s eye view.