Composition With Glove by Kenneth Pobo



            By Pablo Picasso


About my own birth, the stories

change.  My mother is dead. 

I try to remember what she said

about my arrival.  It’s dust.  Mostly. 

A Caesarean, I had hair


the nurses combed.  In my fifties now,

dust feels closer than ever.  


The email arrives about a friend,

my age, with prostate cancer. 


Carl Sagan said at our deaths

the light we see may be that of

our entrance into the world. 

Light and dust—juggling,

one trying to get the upper hand. 


Picasso: Art washes the soul

of the dust of the everyday.  Memory

covers over with a fine silt.  Soon

we can’t blow it away, find

strange patterns, trace lines

that disappear, become something


unrecognizable.  Even my body

looks like dust when I see lines

that form, the hand that surely

can’t be mine but is 


grabbing at a darkness turning 

to bright flecks that fall and fade.