Poetry

Kristina Tripkovic photo

By

Alex Brown

Son Flower

an empty canvas

with melancholy on the tip

she begins to brush

deepest well of black needed

grief her only technique

smeared are his eyes

drawn open by fear

his beautiful coarse hair

so many strokes to achieve

passed down by her

no such thing as a vibrant brown

could have painted him on the slab

instead settled on his room

she’d tuck him in one last time

mother paints son

as he lay on cold steel

gowned in the ugliest of greens

she always thought he looked handsome

in yellow

she’d give him a sunflower

to go behind his ear

adding a hue of light

to the not so vibrant

no more I love you’s

parted lips with departed breath

his mouth demanded more blue

coolness hangs on his spout

no more words to be spoken

a cave of nothingness

in place of a mouth

mother paints her son

longing to paint herself

beside him

Alex Brown

I was born right outside of Atlanta, Ga. Spent my youth coming up with any excuse to visit the city, fascinated by the many different ways people lived their lives. It was on the streets of Midtown that I found myself among the queer community. As a gay man in his thirties I use poetry as a way to deal with inner thoughts and turmoils. Currently sober after many years actively using opiods, When I’m not writing or working my recovery, I’m sipping on a coffee trying not to let the many Netflix options overwhelm me.