There is no glory is liminal spaces.
Only arrogance, big enough to fill it.
There stood Amorsolo’s first draft,
A woman in the midst of creation.
Bone-white canvass, sea foam reclaiming
Its primordial enclave. Engine
Dressed before it is ready. I presume
The artists had the end in mind
But it was now mine to finish
Dad said lawyering is forever.
The older you get,
The more they’ll be needing you.
He celebrated both my LAE and
My sister’s Bar triumphs in the hospital.
“Lawyering is for—
The older you ge—“
He mouthed in intubated mumbles
But that was just what he thinks
I wanted to hear. Our collaboration
On his last words I’m still
Easements was the only time
I ever drew in class. The artistry flared
From repression. Or maybe I just shined
In carving and christening roads. The
Gumption to get where I need,
To get back out there
“There are no walls in Malcolm”
Teased the dead poet. Just towers
stretching to catch up to my distant walk.
To gauge how far I’m going.
It is the scaffolding of the years, I
Return to. Mounted by myself,
The true halls I march on (on
Union-time, of course)
I say when I am finished