For years a picture
hung on the wall of my room.
Frayed, done in by insects and rats,
recognizable only by those
who had seen it when . . .
An effaced semblance demanding to be
worshipped by my grandmother
hung with pride by my mother.
Today, I look at it askance.
How long must I turn towards it?
What solace am I to find there?
Now, I want
this picture smeared with red, effaced.
Let flame reach the far corners.
I place a lit match
in its midst done with, done away,
in its midst.