In year three I painted a bowl of fruit.
Focusing on the shapes involved,
How the composition lies,
Why the lemons in the bowl –
are heavier than the thick paint,
I was lacquering onto the canvas paper.
Hours of tummy-turning anger,
Lemons; bright and yellow as fire,
My destructive talent, I hated my canvas.
I scavenge the hall quickly,
Wanting to find my painting,
It’s hanging boldly on the board.
With my friends’ golden paintings,
I point at all of theirs’,
Diverting each parent’s attention.
Anxiously wondering who notices
The painted bowl of lemons, grouped sour.
We bring the painting back home,
Exhausted I sleep, relieved it’s over.
The bowl of lemons haunts my dreams.
The next morning, I travel the house,
Irritated, I notice the bowl of lemons,
Staring down at me,
From above the giant door frame.
I could never reach it,
Stuck above the door, for anyone to see.
The painting had won,
Against the perfectioned-mind
of an eight year old artist.