Janet Fish, Finding Still Life

My father, Peter Stuyvesant Fish, 
fills our home with the sole somber notes of Bach.
His chords indent the walls like push-pins.
I stare at my uncle's photo, encased in a dusty frame with fractured glass. 

On the island of Bermuda, we celebrate the fourth of July.
      Sweet summer days, sweet still childhood. 
I see: aluminum cupcake liners, whipped vanilla frosting, 
      red and blue rectangular sprinkles, emptied liters of Pepsi,
            a plastic bag full of freshly picked strawberries, 
                  ribbed potato chips, and a fresh kale salad.
The children left that off their plates.

Dusty blue Sadan, red pickup truck 
      a shadow breathes within. 
            Color blasts into the sky along with the sound of war cries 
                            Up in smoke.

***
I stare at Porter's “A Girl in a Landscape” and wonder where her mother is 
and wonder why the sea is a different shade than the sky.
I was inspired by this scene and carried it with me while I moved through time. 

The world watches me shift and picks at my vulnerability 
from abstraction came simplification and I discovered that I loved her.
***
1963, summers in Maine, our love grew and mixed with oil paints and East Coast landscapes.
I looked for stillness; he looked for chaos.
I painted the angles of the hills; he painted the hills without limits, 
bleeding into one another and mixing with the pale blue sky.

In 1965, I write letters to strangers overseas
in the windowsill of a new place that is solely my own.
I paint glass bottles and the cityscapes behind them.
I write letters to strangers overseas
to keep in touch with some type of soul,
for I am alone now.
I write letters to strangers overseas, 
      and tell them about shifts in light
            and shifts in my work 
                  and shifts in my life.

I’m working in an art store, I tell my friend in Santa Barbara.
They let me paint with a discount. 
My brush paints crinkly plastic film and the puckery skins of citruses. 
I’ve formed a fetish for the stillness and purity of shining fruits and reflected light. 

***
“To stop changing is to die” is what I told him the last night I lay in his arms.
Change was what I found comfort in. Maybe that’s why I never made a good lover.
At least not to him.

I painted what I saw, and he continued to paint what he interpreted. 
I wondered if he had a painting that showcased how he interpreted me. 
I imagine it blue, with streaks of red, and a bold line of yellow. 
***
In Vermont, my uncle reminds me of my love for terracotta and slip.
Reminds me of what it feels like to form a naked woman with argil.
That season I made sculptures alongside chickens and straw.
***

Contemplation sings for years,
      my memories showcased in aqua waters.

I paint glass and jewels lost in the sea. 
      I paint the honesty of life
            as it displays itself before me.

I paint to make up for the years 
      when I was too busy tampering with reality
            to appreciate its beauty clearly.