I found a dusty canvas
at the back of my sister’s closet
blank like bullets, exam papers, and mind,
with oils, watercolour colours
slapped with German labels
and the desire
to create
would not let me sleep
lest I paint palm trees and some
wish-you-were-here’s in my dreams
and not on menacing canvas.

Here I lay, my hands pain and paint-flicked
in trying to cover up
little and large mistakes, smudges,
too much lampenschwartz black here and
the canvas is no longer a blank,
nor is my face;
a smear of accidental paint
above my eyebrow.