What a gathering of diverse artists and writers, from 14 states, no less.
Prints, paintings, photographs, assemblage, collage, art quilts.
One side of the gallery was selected art that the writers were assigned to write about. The other side of the gallery was art made about an assigned writing.
To Have and To Hold
Two full refrigerators and a freezer,
and cabinet shelves bowed with cans of food,
pinholes in pasta boxes from whatever bored out, or in,
jarred olives shriveling above their half-volume of brine.
Furniture and mementos
jam bedrooms long deserted;
old suits hang waiting to be worn
to a job retired from years ago. Then,
the worst one could say
was that the house was perhaps tacky,
but that was before
three bouts of cancer,
two arterial stents,
carpal tunnel syndrome,
urinary tract infections,
Medicine bottles stack and spread
over three rooms, and every room
hosts a chaotic mix
used paper plates,
bags of chips opened and forgotten,
whatever the dogs tracked in
along the permanent smudge
of dirt and oil from their coats.
His hands, once brown and strong,
are pale and unsure, and she
is long past tired.
The house is filled,
but there is want in every corner:
I want to mow the lawn again,
the hot grass smell rising around me;
I want to drive, to know where the road leads,
or to choose not to care.
I want to dance, sparkling,
feel you guide me, glide me around the room.
I want to be free.