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Marigold, she says, paint your room that color—
your eyes shut against sun
the color inside your eyelids.
Paint your walls that way—
maple leaves after summer,
Sandia Mountains at dusk,
watermelon, tangerine.
Paint the quiet that way—
Madrona lit before sunrise,
a shade millimeters from sleep.
Close your eyes, she says, look!
Paint me that way, bright, she says,
salmon pinks and oranges,
outline my face, my hands held out—
My fingertips—poppies,
black-eyed susans, and spiced pumpkins.
My hands held out—
cantaloupe and honeyed wine.
Paint me dangerously, cloaks of Pele,
washed in flame.
Cover me in skins of winter fruit—
mandarin, kukuzi, blood orange.
Paint me persimmons
sticky and sweet in your mouth.
Let it all in, she says,
the flesh, the rust of it.
Previously published in The Comstock Review.