So I went to see your show at the Guggenheim,
Twenty-five years after you swallowed a bottle of pills
and sliced at your arms with a kitchen knife.

You probably know this, but the Guggenheim is best
walked backwards - you ride the elevator
to the top floor and meander around and around
until you hit solid ground again -
art should be work, yes, but exercise is a stretch.

You knew that better than anyone -
after your heart exploded in protest
you worked small, so very small - canvasses a yard to a side
that were childlike in comparison to the fabric walls
you slathered in red and orange and tan and purple
that, from a distance, looked like none of those.

The walk was initially pleasant, but emptying -
your colors hurt my feet and bruised my palms
from grasping the low wall to keep from speeding
past the biological allegory in slowly descending circles.

I couldn't breathe from the weight of the canvas,
and the way they became smaller as your heart pumped
less and less blood made me walk fast enough
to draw disinterested attention from the guards.

I hit the doors running.

I don't know what your kitchen floor looked like
the day you drew your curtains closed
and dropped to the ground, but I like to think that,
from a distance, the tile glowed green.

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