Portrait in Ash

We began with a blank canvas

and three colors we didn’t like.

You insisted on using the brush

with the bent handle,

said it “had character.”

I called it broken.

Both of us were right.

We painted like we argued,

the color red spilled everywhere,

not enough shades of color,

layering over mistakes

until the whole thing

looked like an ugly bruise.

You stepped back,

said, “It’s not so bad.”

I stepped forward,

saw every shaking stroke,

every hue that never dried right,

staying wet and messy,

every shadow pretending

to have depth.

When it was done

I carried our canvas outside,

propped it against the fence,

and lit the match.

You asked why I didn’t

just throw it away.

But you can’t risk

someone finding it,

hanging it up,

and calling it art

when all it is

is a mess.