By Jeanne Sirotkin
for Susan Newman Friedman
I read your painting
-it’s a form of braille-
angles, colors and light
that sends me messages
that becomes a dream
that becomes a window
then a history of escape
I broke a crystal wedding glass
and burst into tears
My husband says,
no need to fear
it was only a glass
– not a metaphor
These are the days
they forgot to number
they drift by like pages
torn out of a book that
I meant to write but didn’t
If I lean over and snatch
one page, just one page,
it will be my return ticket
Raccoons dance on the front porch
celebrating the abandonment
of the streets
The pandas in the zoo mate
for the first time in ten years
they’ve been waiting for
the world to shift
I stare deeply at a spot
on the painting
I stand like a tree
without moving a limb
the layers of paint blur as
I slide beneath the canvas as
my body turns inside out and
behind my eyes the colors bleed.