My poor, lonely brain.
Because no one wanted in my head,
I paint my skull
to be more inviting.

I use warm colors.
German cockroach gold,
open-heart surgery red.

I spend hours then years
with my cheek
on the dining room table,
with my skull in one hand

and my brush in the other.
Indifferently, my father passes by the table
and then from this world.
He’d always said,

“Do something because you’re good at it
or to make money.”

My mother grabs my brother
by the shirt collar.
He’s young. He tries
to disrupt my work.

He wants to shake my head
because it looks full
of quarters, but it’s not.
At work my head is full

of my brain’s electric ridges.
My loose, hanging eyes
wearing turtle necks

of muscles and veins—
red, tired, and tear filled.
All this work and no certainty
anyone’s ever coming in.