ART

ART

October, a woman and a boy, a tumor

overtaking his brain, draw pictures

in the waiting room.

She makes a red apple as round

as a face. Then from her hand a cloud

grows and darkens over the apple

until the crayon breaks inside

its wrapper and hangs like a snapped

neck from her bloodless fingertips.

He's drawn two stick-figures

up to their necks in falling gold

leaves, their heads all smiles.

*It's you and daddy,* he tells her.

Above them a flock of m's

fly toward a grinning sun.

When she doesn't answer

he says on Halloween he'd like

to be a horse with orange wings.

Staring at his picture, she says

*It looks like Thanksgiving.

Where are you?*

He taps the sun. *I'm shining on you.*

She hugs him as if trying

to press him back inside her.

*I'm not crying,* she whispers.

He looks over her shoulder.

*I'm not crying, too.*

Eric Nelson

Bellevue Literary Review

Volume I, Number I

Fall 2001