Ona Gritz
Chelsea Office, 1991
Wiped out from AZT and other meds,
he‘d rest beneath his desk mid-afternoon.
One time I lay with him to talk and spoon,
My stocking feet upon his dyed pink Keds.
You should‘ve stayed at home in your warm beds,
our colleagues joked to us across the room.
We harmonized on Neil Young‘s "Harvest Moon"
and other songs that came into our heads.
He combed his thinning fingers through my hair,
his narrow chest pressed up against my spine.
"I need to sleep," he said, "if that‘s okay."
Reluctantly, I left him dozing there
and rose to do his work as well as mine.
I think I started missing him that day.
Darjeeling
With shaking hands he tried to hold the cup.
I helped him so the hot tea wouldn‘t spill.
He kissed my fingers while I held it up;
He‘d grown so tender since he‘d gotten
ill.
"A shame we hadn‘t met before," he
said.
I looked at him unsure of what he meant.
A nurse appeared and lingered by his bed.
To her, I thought, this is a nonevent.
She took his pulse and asked about his pain.
His dark eyes shone like black tea left to steep;
He searched my face but didn‘t find my name.
My only goal was simply not to weep.
I held the Styrofoam to rough, dry lips
and watched my father venture cautious sips. |
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| Jane Sutherland: I choose subjects that I cherish, or that spring from deep rooted feelings, or that come to me intuitively--dogs, roses, cranes, an iconic work of sculpture; and I concentrate on the details and slightest disparities in color, tone and textures in order to show how extraordinary are things we think we know and take for granted. The process of painting for me is connected to the physical properties of the subject as well as to its meanings, associations, and memories. |
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