I saw her scar today,
a prideful star basking in its curtain raising.
(Her black blouse had slipped too low.)
I knew about the cancer, she had told me.
I don’t know why I am surprised by that flash of flesh,
that red reminder of…everything!

I am not a mother. I have no mother.
I don’t want to stay here.
My interpretation of everything, tired refrain.

The red grin cuts me from the ore of rumination,
demands my attention.
I yield.

She does not see my seeing.
She is laughing, the victor’s liberal laugh,
spoil snatched from the ancient unknown enemy.

A red blur. Senses swap. I see by listening.
And I want to forget…everything.

Malevich, K. (1915).  Red square [Painting].  Retrieved from WikiArt.

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