 | ||
| (for Carmelita) |
The portrait was his idea: That
proud half-blind farmer with the
menacing pitchfork in his strong
hand. I am barely there. The
Victorian brooch you see
belonged to our mother: A
lasting St. Valentine’s Day gift
from Father - in 1892: Roses are
so perishable. The merciful
townspeople are not ignorant of
my brother’s unnatural intent:
Their glittering eyes told me
only I am to blame. So I remain
at home - in my Father’s house:
A spinster recluse, not right in
the head. Blissfully corrupting
my poor brother’s bed.
Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell
Painting © Joe Phillips
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