Nighttime, Enigma, and Nostalgia

Amy Small-McKinney

        after Arshile Gorky

Memory, starvation,
night, and night.

How can one black
trapezoid be everything?

A child: Vosdanig?  
Those eyes.  Opened? 
I see you. 
Actually.   Not a child. 

Almost a fetus.

Almost a red blanket. 
And the body always in pieces. 
That I am certain of.

Finally.  Merciless boots.   Never an enigma.
Look, I tell my mother, long dead.  She answers
(in a language I can not speak):

1. When a face is green, its mouth opens.

2. Objects always wander into objects.

3. Believe the browns because they are earth.
4. Be willing to admit white is regret.

Oh, Shushanig. To finish this painting means you are gone.

Dearest, never forget the repetition of black slits.
Or from where you were born.

What remains unattainable, remains.