Blind Venitas
Do not let your paint stick, mother says.
Portraits that began with a cornucopia
of mother’s favourite fruits,
strawberries and cherries, reflecting
colors of my childhood bedroom
through the bedside mirror, where
mother’s eyes met mine.
Her voice guiding my fingers
and soon I would learn
to trace my grandmother’s urn.
I learned strokes, exploring a world
beyond numbers, the pure canvas
my thoughts rushing in to soil.
I will paint churches without
roofs. Then, men holding guns.
Inside the church, a family.
I am in the canvas, mother, between
the world you saw through my eyes,
the skies you painted red.
