CURVES

In his boyhood, my uncle used to draw in curves. 

Unfurled orange petals coiled like burning paper.

Leaves looped into and around each other in 

an emerald embrace. Paisleys swirled into a 

swan's wavy wings and swept a canvas whole.

Years later, he walked on tarred roads for 

miles on end. Colour had left him for good 

and he'd forsaken the canvas to process new 

curves. A twisting spine had bent his neck 

permanently, its spring broken, like his fate. 

In late life, even words walked out on him. 

Of his once-cursive handwriting, no more 

than curved scratches remained. The blue 

of his hand stained the white paper like 

dead veins squiggling for one final breath. 

My uncle could never perfect the straight line.