The first art
Was not art,
Rather, a color line shot through the dark,
No more expression
Than a plea for explanation.
The grandest monuments
And greatest terrible wars
Were all done for the sake
Of a loving God,
For a ready answer,
An easy mistake.
___
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘Check Mate’, have been used with the permission of artist Patricio Betteo.
Crying, I recall my father shudders, remembering tall thin men at the foot of the bed apparitions at night, faceless heads like pins, mostly arms,
You tell her you love her the day she graduates. It’s a carefree spring morning, the perfect kind for the endurance training you sometimes did—
You wake up. Are you dead? You don’t know where you are. Look around. There is a wide dirt road framed by tall, dark pine
