Imagine fury as white lines
smeared across a black plane—
a canvas as large as
a room, black paint
edge to edge.
White dripping from
her brush dripping
down the painter’s arms, her
hands, tiny spots of gray
like wounds where the paint
touched because she could not
wait. Fury, thick as a door,
longer than her body.
Damage might be someone
else’s fault, might
be done already. No
matter. Hang it on a wall.
Puncture the canvas like
skin and pull the knife
to the wood, fury
spilling to the floor.
Hope Smith LeGro is a poet and book editor living and working in Washington, DC. This poem is from a manuscript in progress.