Child Holding Potato
When my sister got her diagnosis, I bought an airplane ticket but to another city, where I stared at paintings that seemed victorious in their relation to time: the beech from two hundred years ago, its trunk a palette of mud and gilt; the man with olive-black gloves, the sky behind him a glacier of blue light. In their calm landscapes, the saints. Still dripping the garden’s dew, the bouquets. Holding the rough gold orb of a potato, the Child cradled by the glowing Madonna. Then, the paintings I looked at the longest: the bowls of plums and peaches, the lemons, the pomegranates like red earths. In my mouth, the raw starch. In my mouth, the dirt.