When I Paint My Masterpiece

The brush does not move, nor the canvas,
nor the wrist of the artist

but the sea rippling along the shore of Italy
where my great-great Grandmother stands, ankle deep

waiting for the pescatori
to return home to shore

dinghies bobbing along the horizon,
her husband, her sons

weighted down with work, made dark by the globe
diving behind the island.

She squints, and a lens snaps the landscape
long before Kodak,

developing itself through the palm on her belly,
which moves, and kicks, and swells

dashing ruddy hues cross the generations’
canvas sails.

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