Brushstrokes

J.A. Roney

Brushstrokes

Linseed oil, ochre, wax and eggs,

red and yellow clay, habitually

couple with cobalt and indigo

on the painter’s palette to be applied¾

the lucky ones captured

forgivingly by sfumato.

Saffron, walnut’s oil and trowel;

these are the tools of the artist¾

and when they finally come

together it causes me to consider,

to think about Van Gogh, Monet and Pollack¾

all they’d seen and processed

in a minds’ eye;

they beheld life, looked deeper

into a hard world,

and when they were ready,

they mixed colors

on newly stretched canvas,

their hand approached with boldness

and trepidation while a sable

tipped brush held between

three fingers applied

paints, fusing all that exists

between reality and imagination,

and it softened.

Catharsis seizes¾

I mix paints of crushed lapis and carnelian;

ready the canvas

for it’s here you’ll find who I am.

Snatches of fear, need for want,

and worn out conversation retire

into oil and gesso

where you’ll find me,

and I can tell you who I am

as you’ll understand¾

you’ll know me by my brushstrokes¾

know yet for yourself, existence softens.

The Eye of the Wisent

J.A. Roney

The Eye of the Wisent

Pressing soul of foot to shell strewn

sand south of the Cape I approach his shifting

sand haven, a salt licked edge of a wound,

with tattered tent, backpack, and bicycle¾

his makeshift clothesline hangs

with sea-washed laundry like lung ta

prayer flags flickering in a wild horse

wind. He kneels, this old leathered bull,

on the edge of his earth, tries to hang

on to pebbles of words the beach patrol toss

his way. I’m so close now, so close now

I see into the hazeled eye of the wisent.

My lungs slow to slip in for a breath

of transient rasps. Slowed lower, his raspy

pulse, the hollow tin of belly, and blisters

of the sin of not having enough pull

at my heels, ramshackle my logic

of how it should be. With care

he removes papers, threadbare, from an

old leather wallet, tries to confirm

his existence to the wind of the world.

Beach Patrol stands casting shadows

and hunting: why are you here?

what are your plans?

Behind his eyes I feel what he sees;

the dominant bulls, aggressive in glory,

press the wisent to shame. Vulnerable,

unable to defend ground, he gathers

clothing, water jugs, canned goods

and shoes, places skin-thin papers

back in the wallet. I slip back

from leathered arms and face with

its gray mane of wild hair, see the wind

pass through him like prayer through god’s

ear. Sun sinks her body behind empty beach

homes, shuttered and safe, while vultures pick

at the loggerhead dead on the dune.

The Way of the Witchetty Grub

The Way of the Witchetty-Grub

1. How it is in the end

We house hunt near the beach with the realtor

Sunday afternoon. It’s a laborious task

to choose a space to parallel your dimensions¾

a cocoon for maturation, a coffer for dressers and linen.

The realtor parades us through houses; few are tidy,

most are dated, while others are beaten, sapric

and declining in shame. The last house

to view reads like this: Lovely waterfront home

with an exceptional view down the canal. Huge fireplace,

upgraded kitchen in last several years, nice screened porch,

two car garage, estate sale. A wheel chair ramp at the entry;

I feel the slip begin in the foyer¾to the hum of the dead¾

a discernable flutter like the ghost moth.  Realtor mentions

the woman died as if it’s luck; but breath is held in here¾

our sanguine natures hold fast to familiar vibrations¾

she’s hovering like moth wing to the candlewick. I wander

rooms filled with her proofs: piano and glassware,

cabinets of motherless dolls, her fingerprints still on the kettle

and the oven mitt’s shaped to her hand¾these are her artifacts.

In the bathroom her hairbrush lays under a note taped to the mirror

Did you take your medicine?

Shadows hold still in their shape; wait to exhale requiems

to her crucifix on the wall. The fluttering follows, hovers near doilies

like snowflakes on shelves with ceramics and curios;

she murmurs it’s simple and quick, a diffusion of bone.

2. How it is in the beginning

The witchetty grub¾plump and wrinkly¾burrows underground

to the root of the Red River Gum digesting its sap, leaving

sawdust trails in her arboreal home. Her existence terminal,

she slips into her chrysalis¾this is her magic, her pantomime

of the living until later, her adapted inertia, a diffusion of bone,

emerges the ghost moth; wings beat Cartesian circles

over the desert wijuti bush in search of a mate.