a poem a day for a year #44

by Amy Turn Sharp


sometimes when I find myself flipping the Francis Bacon art book

strumming the slick pages

peering into triptychs

papal heads

terror raw images

torn flesh

I think

oh it is clockwork time

I must be cataloging and arranging my own inner demons

sorting and tagging the beasts

prepping to make a new canvas

a new journal

bloody

playing with fire

 

I can remember when a cool cat artist so long ago

told me about how he loved Francis Bacon

like

so much

and for days and months that piled up

I tried to find the connection

I tried to see the line from the painter I worked with

at the old Boys and Girls Club on the crazy side of the street

to the pioneer of the scientific method

who died in 1626

 

and it just so happened that one day I just asked him

and then my world cracked open and I saw the frightening paintings

and I sat right down on a library floor

the nubby dull brown carpet

like a scratch

and pulled my hand across the pages

and pretty much everything was right in the world for me

that afternoon

way back there

 

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