miyako73
05-16-2015, 12:01 AM
Inside the art gallery
holding an annual charity event,
I slowly walked
from frame to frame,
my eyes to the moons
painted in different colors.
My fingers were fidgeting
on the stringed Akoya pearls
hanging low around my neck,
jittery on the Burmese ruby
oval cut in the gold ring
my husband gave
and the tourmaline apricots
clustered on my shoulder brooch.
Memories crawled back
like the bony bodies
all loose skin from head to toe
under the barbed wire
and against the grassless ground,
trying to escape.
The framed images made me recall
the dull razor-shaven heads
bleeding droplets before gassing,
the teary cataract eyes staring
at the silence of the fetid air,
and the gaunt shapes of breasts
bruising from dozens of elbows
locked in one small room.
I saw the wasted faces of children
in the dark paintings
of blue, black, and gray
still wishing they could play outside
in the glare of the bright sky
instead of hiding beneath the beds.
Sweat welled on my brow
as if they were tiny balls
about to roll on my ageing skin;
my saliva felt like pebbles
when I slowly cleared my throat;
and from my longing eyes,
liquid beads fell one by one
as though their strings broke.
I remembered the moon
that night at the train station
when they tightly held my hands
before pushing me inside;
Dad yelled: live,
and Mom cried: live well.
holding an annual charity event,
I slowly walked
from frame to frame,
my eyes to the moons
painted in different colors.
My fingers were fidgeting
on the stringed Akoya pearls
hanging low around my neck,
jittery on the Burmese ruby
oval cut in the gold ring
my husband gave
and the tourmaline apricots
clustered on my shoulder brooch.
Memories crawled back
like the bony bodies
all loose skin from head to toe
under the barbed wire
and against the grassless ground,
trying to escape.
The framed images made me recall
the dull razor-shaven heads
bleeding droplets before gassing,
the teary cataract eyes staring
at the silence of the fetid air,
and the gaunt shapes of breasts
bruising from dozens of elbows
locked in one small room.
I saw the wasted faces of children
in the dark paintings
of blue, black, and gray
still wishing they could play outside
in the glare of the bright sky
instead of hiding beneath the beds.
Sweat welled on my brow
as if they were tiny balls
about to roll on my ageing skin;
my saliva felt like pebbles
when I slowly cleared my throat;
and from my longing eyes,
liquid beads fell one by one
as though their strings broke.
I remembered the moon
that night at the train station
when they tightly held my hands
before pushing me inside;
Dad yelled: live,
and Mom cried: live well.