by Emily Mains
My formative years I spent beset with bandages,
while my father—who never worried
about fat over lean, oil and water, the
disintegration of meaning—so painstakingly painted.
The millstone of my youth: the burden of his life.
Winged Figure in a Vortex,
bound by intestines and rope,
and like Diirer's Rhinoceros,
I never saw the beast, mistook my distance for armor, knew him through only
acrylic. The body some sickly vessel:
a breastplate, a tumor, the face of
a gargoyle split in two—
one eye to the world, the other made of glass.