by A.M. Broadous
October 2021

    after The Anguished Man by
   unknown artist (oil and blood
   on canvas)

When I opened my eyes, I had

a vision. When I opened my

veins, I had a new kind of paint.

Art does not imitate life. I flows

with it. No one said it would be easy,

only easier when you sign with your

left hand and can bear to stand

a stream of pain in your right.

This is what I call true dexterity,

one sharpened kitchen knife and one

brush running warm hues into a

masterpiece or a mirror.

Which hand drops first, ends this

wheel of ruthless roulette? It

turns out red prevails, forms a

screaming mouth with no sound,

and they hang it out to dry.

Cruel world, if I can’t love you,

I’ll haunt you.