Immaculada de Soul: Murillo, Bartolomé Esteban
I speak low lest
my love evaporates
before e’en kissed
by your infant’s breath,
and beg before day’s
ascends to nightfall;
small child, look at me
one last time
before you crawl away as slow
as time roams vast.
Too soon tomorrow’s
with the chirps of sweet song,
will bow to cradle this dear life –
and since time nor death
show mercy –
warm arms, other than mine
shall hold him, and voyage with him
to a strange, beatific world,
where all will be waiting.
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Picture: Jay Nabonne
charcoal clouds smudged by thumbs
once haughty –
leaned before angled perpendicular
with promises of black line afterlife; mid air
heady, hung like his smokers’ lungs –
fringed, black laced –
grieving for some time
and for something sinister – brooding
but not quite imagined, not quite
realised on life’s stark canvas
where thumbs are shadow puppets
still stuck in contemplation.
how does one recreate visions of the dying,
and paint death’s culprit edges, dimly
lit by shadows inside wheezing
smoke filters fraying cushions
of shape shifting disease –
hidden, toxically poised – exhaled,
life is spent nervous energy and regrets –
all bad scions; not a good wash for pretty
pastels caught in a ridiculous tango
with painter, thumb and a wispy capacity
of mournful oxygen rattling alone on canvas.