The Pegasus Prize
James J. Lundy, Jr.
Your latest painting is chaotically abstract
and it draws me in at first,
but I find myself looking
at the lamps illuminating it instead.
You'd told me how you had to
wire the cord switches yourself
after your divorce, not
sure if you could do it;
and I picture the girl you once were
who played with Legos in the 70s
building houses out of red and blue.
There was always a fireplace
and an area for your dolls to sit in the back yard
next to the garage where the Ken doll
changed the plugs on the station wagon.
And just now as the roiling pigment and brush strokes
of your untitled painting flick out at me like
an electrical fire,
I think I can see a coil of smoke
the way a child draws an ascending curlicue
from a chimney top,
then the sound of a wrench slipping
and the fierce curses
of a man who skinned his knuckles.