for Victor Espinosa

Pink smudges hide your father's flowers.
The boys without faces are your young sons.
They stand with your brothers,

lifting their arms. You know what work is:
labor with your brushes, labor in fields.
Your father's colors struggle to enter

your painting. He doesn't like your
oranges, your deep blues, light
from a secret source, bird the size

of a whale. You hold its clawed feet
in your wounded hands. Blue ovals,
globes of water, rise from you to the bird,

its sacred red eye and enormous wings.
When you tell your brothers to let go,
they open their hands. The bird flies free.

 

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