by Sarah Brown Weitzman
You came for the light, to paint
what it heightens.
You claim light remains faithful here
to shape and casts an exact measure
of color, except black, on everything.
To me it is all glare.
You say nothing’s black,
and white in a relationship.
You copy the iridescent coffee
in my glass cup.
I am not in the picture.
You love shadows. You say
they are never black.
Today they are elongated
brown-green toads
squatting across your canvas.
I wait for night’s certain dark
which you will deny.
[More poems by Sarah Brown Weitzman]
