Blue, Gary Lark

Michael Diehl, Washington Sunset




She scanned the mattress on the floor,
clock radio and dented saucepan,
the small easel and paints.

She couldn’t believe
there was no “other” woman,
that I would walk away
from a comfortable home,
eight years of living together,
for this!
There was no place for her rage.

I had stepped into a deep silence,
feeling along the walls.

I started in the upper right corner
of the canvas with pure white,
a narrow arc to the bottom.
Every day, after work,
I added a drop of midnight
and seamed in a new layer
merging into the last.

In a month the arc closed
around an azure eye.

Gary Lark


Review by Jared Pearce

Often poems about making poems or art are dull, so this poem, with its refreshing consideration as to how life and art might relate, is quite keen.


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