With Painted Words

Rust

by Anastassia Bougakova

Locked, anchored, beholden

To a simple truth,

Not bronze, not silver, nor golden

But a particular shade of rust:

 

It's the color of light as it spills on the morrow,

Reflecting, refracting

In the wings of a sparrow;

Ashy and aging, feathers matted with red.

 

And the color of creases in soft, leather skin

Years and years old,

Now papery thin,

Gleaming with fresh wet tracks of rain on flesh, on bone.

 

Bone frayed at the edges,

Like the hem of a well-worn dress,

Caught in brambles and hedges

And left to gather dust in the attic,

 

Where cobwebs eat at its faded silk,

Destroying memories and dreams

And other fancies of that ilk,

Belonging to bygone days .

 

The truth is a window set in red brick.

Its sill is flaked

And its window-pane thick,

And its edges are mottled with mold.

 

We dig at the dirt, at the faded old dress,

At the door in the attic, at the weeping aged face.

And we twist and we push and we press

All the locks we have forged

 

For the doors, gates, chains - all covered in rust,

But the keys to these locks

Have long turned to dust.