If Van Gogh were to paint a cancer cell,
he would imbue it blue,
make the background glow
like the yellow of his gaslight
to spread hope with saturated rays.
Or he would repeat the cancer cell
like patterns on a wallpaper,
give them stems and petals
or intersperse starry lights.
His exuberance with color
couldn’t sell his paintings
in his lifetime nor save him,
but it put a posthumous price on his works
that inflates with time
and immortalizes the portraitist,
the painter of sunflowers, landscapes,
and the friend of Joseph Roulin,
the postman who wears a beard with whorls
and a blue uniform sporting yellow buttons,
as he looks out at the world
that never ceases to marvel at him
in the play of light at galleries.
Grey Sparrow Journal 