Cathexis Northwest Press

© 2018 

  • Facebook
gun painting

cars splintering

            and bullets hitting

                         the hollow metal 

                                   of red and yellow 


there is a gun painting


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


were shooting me


for not doing my history


forgetting to do the dishes


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


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.



Imogen Bylinsky is a sophomore in high school from NYC.