Painting What You See
by Sara Backer

When I leave, the guards lock up.

The Van Gogh museum
goes dark, room by room,
and I board the trolley carrying
blackbirds, wheat fields, yellow chairs.
Running through the window,
through the fixed reflection of my eyes--
clerks on bicycles beside canals--a wall
of bricks--a lamp behind lace curtains--
sidewalk bins of apples, onions--wheels
of cheese--trees with small white
stars out in December dusk--the station.
 
Squeezing out the exit, behind me
someone pushes hard.  I move;
my jacket pocket has an unfamiliar lump.
I grab and catch a hand
with graceful fingers, soft and blue.
I turn--an eerie glimpse of eyes
like prisms exploding--and he's gone.
 
 
First published in Conclave: A Journal of Character
 
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