Pentimento

Ian Goh

May 29, 2026

I:
The house was set,
the image limned with promise.
She wanted to talk.
About me.
My problems.
My grievances.
Finally. After twenty years.

Tap tap tap—she sat across,
her head framed by a halo,
like those sixteenth-century portraits
of an angel poised with a spear.

A brush in hand, slice on canvas.
Finally, we painted. Together.
Family is blood, right?
Like pastel and oil—
beautiful when mixed.
All would come to light
under the glazing dark.

II:
The house was not set,
like its promises.
She said she wanted to talk.
About me. My problems.
Half her face was in shadow,
like those sixteenth-century portraits
of an angel brandishing a spear
at a sinner.

Tap tap tap—her strokes heavy.
Brushwork impatient. Like her tone.
Why so slow? Twenty years old already
still stay up so late. So irresponsible.
Family is blood, right?
Pastel and oil have to mix.
Better spilled on open canvas
than bottled up in the dark.

III:
The house was rented,
the furniture borrowed.
Too stiff. Too stubborn.
How to speak about my problems
when my face was branded
by accusations and blame?

Tap tap tap—we are not your ATM, y’know?
You treat this place like your hotel.
Blood is thicker than paint.
We are your family. Your blood.
Why you always take us for granted?

Relief, at first—another coat of paint.
Try to reclaim the frame. Brush deeper.
Render perspective. She would understand.
She would see the places yet untouched,
the white space of what remained
of my innocence.

IV:
The house belonged to her.
She was dicing onions in the kitchen,
like an angel slicing the skin of a sinner.
Too stiff. Too stubborn.

Do you think we showed your sister
favoritism? You couldn’t go overseas.
Your health. How to look after you
when you can’t look after yourself?

The strokes quickened—Frantic now.
Details skimmed. Splotches of red.
The dicing was raw. Tap tap tap—
That’s how the skin was pierced.
That’s why the strokes
refused to dry.

V:
She’s holding a knife
it’s pointed at me
she tells me to leave—
or else
she’ll do something
she’ll regret.

But I can’t.
I am frozen
on an image
that was never meant
to surface
And all I can do
is bury it deep
beneath layers