Red Bristles by Lacey Buycks He’s already finished the piece, a gift for his mother who burns for the acrylic aroma, the gritty paint her thin hands run over. The poet does not paint well, when his fingers are estranged to the buoyancy of a brush. His mind lingers too long and the bristles leave a ruby splotch on the page. On the canvas, a dirt path leads to a forest of pines. To the poet though, they look more like upsidedown broomsticks. In the middle, a fiery splatter covers a boulder overtaken with wisteria and sage. He curses, overturns his chair and puts a fist through the canvas. The red is gone, a gaping hole in its place. The poet takes a pencil and on the back he writes, “your son,” he titles it, “Holy Hell.”
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