In the painting
I see the back of my head
The cheek and profile
Of my sister crying,
We’re standing deep
In the wheat field
Towering over us
Watching our father’s tractor
Traveling in circles,
All you can see is the big rear tires
The side of his leg
His left hand
Sleeping at the wheel,
We can see the barn burning
All the animals running
Out of the smoke,
I can see
The arsonist painting
This scene of her own making
But she left the picture
Before it was dry
Smouldering in my mind.
