Three of t.m. thomson’s poems have been nominated for Pushcart Awards. She is co-author of Frame and Mount the Sky (2017) and author of Strum and Lull (2019), which placed in Golden Walkman’s 2017 chapbook competition, and The Profusion (2019). Her passions include kickboxing, playing in mud, and savoring art.
Feeding Klimt Saw a photo of him holding a cat. He wore an old smock and his hair was artist-wild except in the center where his scalp held one little curl-wisp. He wore a slight smile and his eyes were earnest and almost crossed like the eyes of the masked cat in his arms. If he and his homely but kind face were to show up at my house I’d check his ribs to see if he was too skinny. I’d run a comb through hair and beard to chase out any fleas. I’d say there there you can live here among the poppies and sunflowers reposing under the apple tree when it gets hot. They are undoubtedly much like the ones you’ve sown elsewhere on other canvases—bold and clustered with baby’s breath and sun and shaded by a green and gold mosaic of trees. I’d give him the run of yard and field the shelter of eave and even my house with an open door policy. He’d rub against my ankles smile up at me speak a language I could not understand and soon miss his rambling ways his starry-haired mermaids his wild-eyed Athena. I’d send him on his way with a kiss and a hope he’d be back for dinner sometime. Good Friday (for Ben) What a holy day-- drift of hydrangea mud the color of an eye grey pearl sky brindled with clouds. Wind stirs me-- sigh of still-bare branches pulsing others weighed down by magenta- opal-vermillion an embarrassment of petals then raised sharply by snaps of gales. That shock of gardenias-- a holy ghost of fragrance fern fronds— supplicants of soil and the leaves of daylilies-- breeze thaws them so that they ripple green flames promising. And all those years ago on a day such as this you and I sat at Perkins and you charmed me by knowing the name of the table’s pattern-- rossetta boomerang you said. Something holy in the red squiggles always turning back on themselves as if chased by breeze amid a roseate spring.
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