In that light the dust that gathered on lime-grime
was extraordinarily beautiful. It was a cloudy full moon
and in that smear of uncleanliness she could see herself
and all her rampant latent potential to be exhumed
yet in that light too she can see reality.
she can see the bad brush she has to deal with
and sometimes scrub-ache in her arms kills her brain,
but the smile she wears on her face as she shows
a sad painting is true – she is the happiest she has
ever, ever been, and the depths of her happiness
stretch out into the deepest trenches of her embattled body
she is a warrior, Uma is. and she has a best friend who loves her.
I guess that’s really it – someone who doesn’t have to ask questions
that’s what is important, when you’re standing naked in the light,
natural and true.
Uma has to answer insipid questions—
about why her paintings come out so sad—
people see her in them, in the low-tide lips
and the cavernous shadows that nest in her hips
her answer is always very simple:
one day she was sitting quietly in the bathroom
which she always kept dark
knees up to her chest on the floor of the shower
and there was mellifluous wind that moved the curtain
and provided a precious glimpse of light.
so of course, she had to wrench the fabric,
tearing the blockade from its railing.