I Am a Rothko Painting
By Kevin Hinkle
Canvas stretched across a frame, rough and dry.
I'm a Rothko painting—deep red,
brown, and orange. I'm February brooding,
suffocation from a lack of sun.
My therapist tells me to appreciate
my moods, to talk back and walk on. I nod...
but I'm Rothko painting.
I can't bear mirrors and self-contemplation.
I'm a Rothko painting, and it's difficult
to accept beauty’s nuclear age.
I remind myself that sunlight varies by season,
meaning depends on context.
Rothko painted me layer on layer;
now let me hang and dry.
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