There is still my mother’s art cupboard to clean
brushes hardened in their final attitude
I have delivered
to an art project halfway across the world
pencils roll out in maddening escape
when I open the door
paints are dried as so many things are
mostly it’s the spill of oil pastels that remind me of her
primary vivid
sticky slick still on my fingers
trodden into the ground each step I take
they grain
seizing like chocolate
(if you take a piece hold it close
to the metal hot top of a kero heater
it melts so oily bright and will be worth
the wrath)
but what she could do with them
wielding such intensity into life
and they are living still
exquisite, Mikaela
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