Starved

My father used to paint
Cold War night terrors
nukes sliding obscenely
from sinister silo mouths
bloody teardrops swimming
in shadow
stylised silhouettes emerging
against stark monocolors

He had two sons, sat down
at a bench to sculpt false teeth—the family
business, fingers and eyes strained
over minute lines of bicuspid and incisor
never returning to his easel.

My brother used to paint
psychedelic visions—I remember
one rendered strange a dollar bill
pyramid in brutal olive green, that Eye
staring staring through your secrets

He enlisted as a teenage runaway
trained in imagery analysis
opium fields
who moved wrong
which truck accelerated too sharply
toward the Green Zone
satellites replaced canvas.

My partner used to paint
fractal dreams of bubble worlds
goldfish and silver screen stars
bangles and reaching trees
rainbows bleeding into grayscale

She went to work in archives
amid dust and red rot
the dustier public
leering to know who their planter ancestors
might have met
or killed
or owned
then they laid her off anyway
right at the pandemic's peak.

Spare a thought for the paintings that starved
for want of a dollar.

Nick Shipman is a university administrator and editor, originally from the Boston area but currently residing in Richmond, Virginia. He has earned degrees in English, History, and Gender Studies. His writing has previously appeared in such publications as Whurk, Quail Bell, and The Other Herald, among others.