We saw the gleaming on the floor
From up where we were it looked like glass
Like broken soda bottle fragments in a sparkling green clump
Leaning nonchalantly against the wall, cornered
My kids of course took a piece of candy, why not
Shyly though and there were so many nervous smiles from a small crowd
Gathered around us, a kind of conspiratorial hush fell and
Everyone was trying to decide if they were really allowed
To eat candy from a piece of art in a museum.
I was thinking of hospital rooms
Doctors dressed in scrubs the color of green apple candy
And the pie I brought her that she never got to eat
I held her hand like she was a child, as she cried
So much smaller now
So much less
And knowing we wouldn’t see each other again
She weighed less than a hundred pounds when she died
Eroding slowly, piecemeal.

“Is that really art?” asked my son
As we walked away.

In response to artwork by:
Felix Gonzalez-Torres
Untitled (Rossmore II), 1991

green candies individually wrapped in cellophane
Collection of Diane and Bruce Hall


Holly Hendin is a psychiatrist working in Phoenix. In her poetry she tries to catch and elaborate on those moments that otherwise would slip by quietly, expanding upon the spaces between the stitches. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in The Front Range Review, Summerset Review, The George Washington Review, ginosko, Crack the Spine, Crack the Spine Summer 2013 Anthology, Schuylkill Valley Journal, The Write Room, Wild Violet, Red Ochre LiT, Midway, The Tower, Fourteen Hills, Cottonwood, and Alembic.

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