when i was young, my father was once paid in framed
paintings, the kind that are real: not replicas. he was
so proud - he hung them throughout the rental home.
no small feat - considering nails made holes and holes
made less of the deposit returned
so for these painting to hang - created a shift in reality
he would sit and stare at cowboys, horses and guns
in the living room above the piano was a gunslinger.
he would stare at it with angry blue eyes. he'd stared past
us into the painting - as we left
my mother who stayed, slowly inserted pictures of us
then reproductions of women in a slow despair of loss
the Virgin of Guadalupe entered first, then signs of
romance and grief and perpetual waiting at the well
my dad still sat and stared past
one day, on one of my returns - he looked at me and
asked - wasn't there a painting of a gunslinger above
the piano
there never was - i said - as I walked past
