The Creased Dyslexic and the Fine Artist

A public hanging. Tense canvases stretched taut,
cadmium poppies grimacing, the wire slack,
them: leaning forward, kicking away from the wall.

I can spot it from Twenty feet.
That slight unease, at the tilt.
It’s left shoulder slumped.

I cannot stop myself. I wait until the corridor
has emptied out each end, then raise
it on the right, shifting the balance.

Stepping back, I look at it like its artist
judging the spaces between each object
for the first time, seeing where it’s lacking.

This is the skill I have from my mother:
the inability to walk past a painting
that isn’t straight and anger

when they draw closer, surround it,
balking like horses, saying:‘How Much!’