The Beauty that Endures by Aching

 

The more life takes away,

the more aesthetic

I become.

Maybe this is how

an artistic soul

clarifies itself:

through privation.

 

I’ve heard it said:

a heart that hurts

is a heart that works.

If true, then it is

entirely possible

I may live

the rest of my life

bound by a buoyant

sorrow.

 

Though my capacity

for joy is equally great,

I cannot abandon

my wound.

In its aching

rests a potent

source of strength.

Who’s to say

this aching

has no claim

to beauty?

 

I see my wounds

as altars

calling my body

to be attentive

like a parishioner

in a church

where silence

and singing

cry equally out

to be heard.

 

My wound is

a painting by Pollack,

miraculously appearing

in the basement

of a dimly lit tenement

as local children

gather round,

curious to see

for themselves

the magnum opus

that appeared

where one least

expected.

They huddle round

its spattered canvas

as if to keep it

and themselves

warm.

A hush falls

naturally over them

as one boy distributes

a small carton of

cake candles

like cigarettes

and begins lighting

one from another

until all are lit;

their combined

brightness

illuminating

their faces

let alone their lives

in the presence

of my conspicuous

yet beautiful

bruise.

9/1/23