Roe Two

A painter of religious scenes, she dabs the yellow glaze, a thirty-year-old seraphim, views the work that's honed, never wise in this game, doubts she's ever alone, in great nights of dreams, even when just the same, it's not what it seems, the canvas lets her roam, a stretch of wooden nails, in many ways she's gone, to places she’s never been, lost without a name, a matchstick in the sea, the work is not her own, the pull of certain days, like some hurricane zone, her body aches without relief, deep sunk eyes are crazed, her mind is never easy, she holds another frame.