"negative." by Elisheva Fox
negative.
i have become the sort
of woman who,
when presented with
twombly and pollock,
has an
opinion.
pollock with his
thick oily layers
and cacophonous colors
leaves no space
for anything besides
himself.
i understand twombly now,
ten years after my chuppah,
one year after discovering
the cracks in my heart
were rainbow-gilded.
his canvas blooms
with the lurid
roses of bloody
romance, but -
there’s space to breathe.
and in the quiet, the
flowers deepen
their roots.