Private Screening

it was a private screening, no appointment, just the final masterpiece there on the wall.

and him — part of it now, framed complete.

like an artist’s work, it was modern, strokes of gaudy colour with thick applications of material, no planning, no design. on a large canvas of magnolia it lay, a perfect wash of matt, a clock against the border, some brick exposed, wire from a lamp hanging down.

like a mosaic in its way it had big segments and small ones, a mix of stained glass going in and out of line, the darker shades blended in with chunks that had oozed out thick like paint from a tube, smears and impasto in places.

and in some areas, the burnt black fabric was intertwined with red and white, running down the wall, splatter on the floor, the frame shattered where the bullet had passed through bone and brain and memories, through receptors and nerves and grey matter, the colours scattered randomly in obscure arrangements.

his father’s revolver.
the last thing he ever made
hangs on the wall.