the colors would change with light:
not as all paintings must,
but as a river suddenly flush
with wild jumping fish.
pixie cut girl dashing around naked
me shy and shocked
peppermint ice cream
pink cheeks
She would turn mildly
in a tar-crack driveway and mumble.
She would take my folded poem
in her bare white hand
and read it aloud, quickly,
as if to her self.
trapped together
sweaty gas station bathroom
tears slide down
they’ll leave without us
your eyes hang low
like a hound dog’s
She would laugh loudly,
the har har pitching out
of the artwork,
startling quiet onlookers.
you sneak in
take my cloisonne bracelet
the very gift you had given me
i ignore you for months cruelly
anger dripping down my throat
dirty honey
If my sister were a painting
I would side-eye
her cut-off shorts,
upturned mouth
and the movement of hand on hip,
- something of mine, invisible in that hand-
the elbow, a fine point.
i dare you
hot green peppers
again and more out of the jar
i goad you giddy
yes twenty
you swallow startled
and we laugh
Wide feline eyes look down on me,
while fingers reach out
striking the redhead of a match
against the slate museum wall.
Later I see the clever-shy details of your face:
you gently bite your lip, hold back a smile,
raise your eyebrows in expectation.
You make me melty cheesy toast in the little oven.
She sets my poem afire.
She dissolves through a camouflage
of dark background and
pin-stick oil spots.
You teach vulnerable children,
the cherishing smile in your voice;
You get married in your backyard
and we feed carrots to the horses
lingering at the back gate.
I watch the blue, the yellow
the orange-candy heat.
The canvas curls up,
ribbons in its frame.
When I talk about childhood misdemeanors,
you are silent, mysterious.
I leave the building, scorched fingertips.
