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Portrait of a Woman Artist

We were outcasts living in America’s raised fist.

The cancer crouched in his lungs, waiting
for the surgeon’s scalpel.

My love dying upstairs as the tide spat bricks.

King was already dead. Kennedy next.

I made the headstone myself, bludgeoned the alabaster.
It consoled me with its weight.

When I took up with black musicians,
someone left a dead chicken on the porch.

I didn’t care if I had enemies.

I taught myself to paint with the blunt edge
of a stick, ploughed into ice-thick water
to watch a cormorant dry his wings.

Friend, I tell you, I did not end.
I paddled harder then.

In memory of Pat de Groot