Oil On Canvas
The final baby my mother carried
Was an unhealthy weight of tumour.
She had a morning sickness
That could not seem to tell the time.
Even eating a tangerine would make her
Bring up a palette of orange
And carmine red into a bucket,
The sunset colours of her final self-portrait.
They tried to remove the brat by section,
But it did not want to come out:
It clung inside her with a cord
Like a length of twisted steel.
And this baby fed as if there were no tomorrow,
Gifting black milk in return -
Draining her to a husk in her own likeness,
The colour of raw sienna.
They laid her out in cloth
As white as a naked canvas,
Fresh for a nature morte in one last frame,
With a single candle beside her to light her way.
Page(s) 15
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