It Must Be Time For Lunch Now, 1979, by Francesca Woodman
A phantom song
sings through his madness
of forks and a dish running
away with a spoon.
The broken pane sunlight
chases him through the room
trying to lure him out of the dark.
Was I ever a child or just
a hatchling of insanity?
I remember no loving mother
suckling me at her breast.
I can’t find my way
out of the paint
that bloodies my hands.
Why couldn’t my muse
demand a pen to write
the images from my brain
and not a paintbrush leaving
my walls a nightmare canvas?
Peace speaks a language
I cannot translate.
This paint, this room,
a senseless melody
are a maze with no escape.
©Susie Clevenger 2012
Photo prompt: The Mag
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Comments
Peace speaks a language
I cannot translate.
This paint, this room,
a senseless melody
are a maze with no escape.
"I can’t find my way
out of the paint
that bloodies my hands."
An "out, out, damned spot" moment if ever there was one. Wonderful.
I've read several responses to this prompt, but this is the most evocative and meaningful of the lot. I recently read a memoir written by an adult woman who was essential unloved and neglected as a child. This encapsulates it.