The following two poems were written by Christina Beasley, age 16
canvas
threads lithe, tight fingers bolted to a frame of
skin and bone
stretching as though born clutching a sky
brought down by the weight of a universe-
here, take some ink and cry me a river, love-
let it sink in and dye these coarse strands
the color of thatched veins reaching across empty pallets
bringing
life to every fiber
you, conflicted isis, isn't
this how they used to do it lacing
around impossible figures like mid-afternoon clouds
torn down to two dimensionality evanescent and cruel in their dissection
of the natural form?
seizing horizons that could
very well be the end of the world-
and yet You know as you put
away your paints and pastels
that their own flesh border still locks them in
still holds them fixed to a splintered edge
and a corporeal casing still carries them home.
watercolor
wringing out black strands
of coarse angel hair we stand
on bridges heavy with gothic swirl
their adornment an embrace.
strokes of graffiti and grime laced inch by inch
on bleak pillars they shout names
so far from umber burnt sienna
vermillion-
But artists bleed this
she confides
her mascara running down like two
hiroshige
waterfalls
whispering down her cheeks they are
but shadows of their former selves
-every black procession still
a masterpiece.
every touch of authenticity to
canvas is art.
