I can barely hold my eyes open.
And all the icons are staring
in deep prayer
and the bones of their folded
hands are crunched.
The jaws of untrained hounds.
Like the reflections on the water.
The notes of a perfectionist.
Gray, closer to wedding dress ivory,
Gray hair brushed back.
And yellow, yellow walls
that fed the flowers,
hacked from the roots of
the memorable, the missing
the gray haired woman
feeding the dog,
halting the rain,
bending the air,
with grace like a kitchen knife.
She painted Christ's fine garments
and gold around his head,
like a flashlight,
held by the sparrows.
You were the unknown Pasiso.
You painted gods son,
hung above my cradling bed.
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