Based on “Still life,” by Camille Dungy
The still life painting of my life right now
has a bunch of fragrant, colorful flowers,
overflowing a simple,
large-bottomed pitcher
used as a vase.
There are petals fallen
to the table beneath,
sprinkled on a common still-life
bowl of fruit.
The bowl is old, wooden –
cracked, dark rich wood
cradling apples, an artichoke and lemons.
The apples – two of them –
are my children.
They are ripe and
full of flavor,
bruised but crisp.
I have forgotten what they taste like.
The artichoke balances
on the right hand side of the bowl.
This is my husband.
Layered and bumpy,
with a soft inside.
The tips of the leaves
are a sharp, the soft,
inner part hidden
from those who don’t pull it apart.
The lemons are scattered
around the other fruit.
They are my extended
family and friends.
Their color adds life
to the canvas composition.
Their bitterness and seeds
offset the sweet flavor they add.
The painting itself
is cracked and aged,
but it hangs on my wall,
a portrait of me.
