Abagail Petersen
No. 6 (Violet, Green and Red)
                                  oil on canvas: Rothko, 1951

My father points at mountains,
measuring his wilderness.

Like any good daughter,
I tighten, a skinned rabbit, strained
knuckles against rope,
                               and rush to meet the rock

                                                                faithfully,
catching the man
                                                        as a raven
                 gathers misaimed
                                    words.

Abby, your skin is a season.
Open,                       scar.

There’s nothing

left to fall              once we make the top.


I wait, violet        in the east,
for my father to turn

and tell              his sun

that it’s bright and cold                  take my gloves,
sit closer,                                            take my hand,

                                   can you imagine living

over a waterfall?

in just
moments—

listen.

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