The angry words of the evening
live on like old scars, product of a moment
that lasts longer than egg tempera
blended with the finest magenta.
Laid on as thinnest clearest layers
until they resemble true skin,
and into this lay a ragged
edge of chromium white impasto:
overpaint it with magenta and verdigris
in glazes so painstakingly thin we
feel the pain
believe the cut
the words have caused.
We believe the cut
we believe the scar
we believe the words.
Deeds, words, evening.
