Mommy's MOMA

He's Pollack sans scotch
an instinctual splatterer double-brushing, or using the lid of
the paint can as a stamp.
"It's an Angel," he says of a smear
and then sprinkles pebbles on top
to give the angel some bones
The harmless watercolors that he'll
soon outgrow are putting rainbows in his hands.
"I paint waves! I paint oceans!"
He's practically delirious as I lift him
to the sink.
He painted his shirt, he's painging the floor,
and now he's painting me as I try to
wash him, as if uncomplicated passion
were as communicable as a drooly kiss.