She sits with knife in hand
and pigments in a wooden box at her feet,
mixing a viridescent shade to layer onto lovingly stretched canvas.
The canvas depicts tranquility, calm.
Impasto renditions of what her life is not.
Surprised by the sharp resurgent pain
she takes an even sharper breath and leans forward to layer in the greens,
pleased with what she sees.
Lamenting her sore ribs,
she thinks of Phillip.
He doesn’t understand her art,
her drive to create
something that will last longer than either of them.
Finally deciding, she removes the ring from her hand, drops it, and
presses it down with her foot. To cover it, conceal it,