We put the painting in a pine box
and gave it the care of the living.
Every once while, we'd suckle it
with milk and every once while,
offer something a little stronger.
Such was the life of the thing
that on warm nights, where the quiet
leaks into every room like a draft,
we'd hear a muffled voice and wonder
what it could possibly say,
having spent a life in darkness.
Once, curious, I lifted
the lid and felt into the cold space
I touched wet oil and recoiled.
My fingertips returned,
smudged white.
Now, there's no we.
The box is kept beneath
the stairs, beneath rackets
and clubs and other signs
of living. I am the sole
keeper and I refuse
to raise the roof.
Dare not
look inside.
