She’s looking at something light—
………………..not the tree trunks on the right
……something on the left.
Say, sunset.    Say, a salty breeze.

I dab white petals over the orange half disk,
……white out the breeze and shadows too,
…………smear grape, scales, and lemon juice      all around
…………..the potatoes and potholes of her back.
(Reach inside her torso,
……the colors would darken instantly,
…………the bristles would spread, the wrist would ache.
Take a bite and it would taste like cotton candy
…………before catching in the throat.)

The trunks are too skinny.        The paint is drying—
……………………………………….…………Time is running out.
Anyone can paint appearances—
……it’s not more difficult than lighting up a sky with whorls.
But nothing painted can revise
………………………………………………….what’s inside.

…………………………………………Squirrels rustle
in the foliage      on her right      behind the tree trunks.
……A squirrel for every nut?
I daub brushes—
……violets, creams, turquoise, greens—on the bushes.
The shadow of a brush across her stays.
Her mother—my grandmother—wore green.
…………She was tall and read me poetry.

– Kenton K. Yee