My and Van Gogh's Secret • Shana Nicholson

Hidden away in a patch of cobalt sky
one stray bristle, off the paintbrush of an
impassioned hand of a man too
enraptured to notice, lies silent.

We snicker behind the backs of the grizzled
critics as they puff and pontificate over
manufactured questions
of brush strokes and composition.

God is in the chaos of the blood
red drip left lingering in the midst of
a haystack in the frenzied moment capturing the
sunlight on a blade of grass at 6:52 p.m.

As the assembly line patrons file through
discussing the ear incident,
we roll our eyes then cover our mouths and stifle
a giggle

as he gently elbows me and points at the rogue,
orange beard hair thoughtfully
tucked inside the
glowing swirl of a starry night.