Susan Stringfellow
Van Gogh
I’m separate from the world
and my hair is falling out.
My slippers are askance.
The Letters of Van Gogh in my hand.
His left eye in odd angles,
and so the socket. Other eye
smooth, like any human.
Face lined in random spots,
near-vertically, same stroking
as the strong, excitable brows.
The furrow between the brows,
the bump on the line of the nose.
Nothing easy for the man,
his body lit by electricity
but forced to sit, to wait,
for some sanity, some calm,
an effort, and this pandemic,
when we are all sitting,
doing a little work, watching a little
t.v., waiting
for something to approach.
—Submitted on 04/02/2020
Susan Stringfellow holds two MFAs in creative writing, one from Carlow University and another from Chatham University, both in Pittsburgh.
SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.
If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value What Rough Beast, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.