Until the hour came to meet him, asleep in his bed, under
a drunkard’s quilt
a thousand hours he stood with his brush,
a hundred iterations
lofted in hay: The snow-
covered church, abandoned. The Woodburn clock tower
on campus. The tipple that ghosted the tracks.
When lantern tipped, the flame unextinguished
licked at the bents and slats, licked at the canvas,
incinerating. Let it burn, he said. Start over.
Originally appeared in Volume Poetry Vol. 3 Iss. 1
©2023 Kathleen Hellen
All rights reserved
Kathleen Hellen…
…has a collection Meet Me at the Bottom forthcoming from Main Street Rag. Her credits include The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin, her award-winning collection Umberto’s Night, published by Washington Writers’ Publishing House, and two chapbooks, The Girl Who Loved Mothra and Pentimento.
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