The Letters
He wrote his brother asking for money,
the letters were poignant, authentic.
He illustrated them with drawings.
The brother looked forward to the letters even though he was supporting
him: the older who could not hold a job.
He became erratic, fiercely unconventional,
after the heart breaks: the women, the Borinage, the Church,
father, not happy with his son's lack of progress.
Few friends, difficult temper, people tired of his arguing.
Scandalous – living with a whore who modeled for him.
Frequently moved, a voracious reader, spoke several languages.
The attacks came, they put him in a sanitarium,
still he painted and wrote the letters to his brother.
The letters, filled with wondrous descriptions: the docks in Antwerp, a white horse in black mud, the smoky walls of a warehouse, the mysterious bug-like Chinese girl quiet as a mouse, Arles,
a ruined abbey on a hillside covered with holly, pine and grey olives he hoped to paint.
The letters kept coming and in them there would be
the mention of funds, of getting just a little more,
so he could afford the paint, canvas, brushes, paper, turpentine.
The brother collected his paintings,
he tried to get buyers interested, but to no avail.
The letters, the record of an artist's journey,
like his fantastic paintings,
swirling with the passion of life, undulating with colorful character,
the brother could live another life in those letters.
The letters, a testament to creation.
News of the accident came, he was seriously injured.
The brother went to see him one last time at his bedside.
Then he was gone, the man who wrote the letters.
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Published in Torrid Literary Journal
(vl_23_jan_2019)