Painting the House – by Paul Fisher
It’s hard to match summer gloss,
much less blackberry sheen,
when shadows won’t allow
sun to brush the peeling porch
where young bones say it should.
It’s hard when, from her rocker,
your grandmother knits
one day into another
as you spill archipelagos,
atoll by atoll mapping the floor.
You imagine painting her
as a girl adrift in a crone’s chair,
the house a Sargasso Sea,
doilies on her dresser
crocheted from mermaid hair.
It’s hard to guess what colors
clouded eyes may choose
to quiet each raucous room.
But gold-leafed light’s done for today,
and you’ve grown tired as any boy
forced to own the mess he’s made.
originally published in Passager