Were I a painter, I’d
embroider
a flock of nuns I saw
sprinting up the steps of
St. Matthews.
Tardy for mass during Holy
Week?
Finally, something to
confess,
and I hurry to invent a
paintbrush.
Habits of an unnamed purple
hue
fly behind them cape-like,
and teensy feet in black
loafers
barely sweep the stone
so begging to support them.
Modest smiles apologize to
urgency.
Were I a painter, peace is
what I’d color.
A vision tattooed
on the canvas of memory.
***
Cari
Oleskewicz is a writer and poet living in
Tampa, Florida. Her work has been shared in The Washington Post, Sasee
Magazine, The Commonline Journal, The Pedestal Magazine, Imitation Fruit
Literary Journal, Main Street Rag and Platform Art. I recently participated in
The Pulitzer Remix Project with Found Poetry Review, and she is currently working on a novel in verse.
