The Indian on the Canvas

I never believed in art
the way I believed
in poetry, literature,
music, and film.
I acknowledged it as the sister
to my own work.
I never said it wasn’t worthy
I just never understood.

That oil Indian on the canvas
showed me meaning,
the emotional claws
that gripped my stomach
and twisted
when I saw the tattered flag
and the Purple Heart.
He wouldn’t let me look away
from the past of our nation.

I’m a child, and like a mother
she showed me technique,
the detail and precision
of a surgeon’s scalpel,
more time, and attention
than I could ever muster
for the most detailed
sonnet or sestina.
Ten thousand lines
that I didn’t notice
until my face almost touched
the painting.