Jayleen Serrano


he had two bony thumbs dipped in
thick red tempera, dark eyes fixed
attentively on mine. with the grace
of a god, he smeared those thumbs
across the sky, streaking red over
blue over purple over gold. a regal
violence, a sorrowful sigh, a summer night alone.

the moon was nestled in between
patches of a whipped cream sky,
floating, disembodied. quietly, he
removed his fingers from the canvas
and wiped them off on his pants.

that wasn’t so hard, now, was it? he asks.

i drum my fingers against the
pavement. i guess not.