Cathexis Northwest Press

© 2018 

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gun painting

cars splintering

            and bullets hitting

                         the hollow metal 

                                   of red and yellow 

 

there is a gun painting

            BOOM!

hanging on the wooden

ledge that rests above

my mother’s study

 

sometimes while I pick

and pick

at the raw fabric

of her yellow canvas couch

listening to empty static

bleed from the nape

of her mouth

 

I feel as if the guns

            CRASH!

were shooting me

 

for not doing my history

homework

forgetting to do the dishes

THUMP!

for my spine complying to

the horrible posture that

arches my raw back

for just passing by what it

means to be her daughter

 

her words slimy

leaking down like alphabet soup

            BANG!

pain leaking through those

carefully layered oils

mother, she is not

tending her garden anymore

listening to my stories anymore

saying goodnight anymore

 

mother, take those gun paintings

and your baggage.

 

mother. 

Imogen Bylinsky is a sophomore in high school from NYC.