by Catherine Berg
My lips are painted. The lavender strap from my shoulder blade is falling. It is waiting for you. It is waiting for spring.
The leaves are blowing in circles outside of this window. I ask them to cease. I ask them to stay still. The vibrations from my voice cannot compete with the lonely speech of the wind. The vibrations from my voice only convince the pictures on the wall. The red violets, the purple tulips, the orange daisies. No sunflowers. Never any sunflowers on the windowsill.
The green in the leaves have dissipated. The Christmas cactus did not bud. I did not wet the plant. I did not cry in the soil. The dry pot did not carry through autumn. It is not wanting to feel the cold. The blue sky does not want to feel the cold.
My father was taken without time. Without a goodbye. He did not sit in the sun near the east windows of his walled room. He sought pleasure near a lone streetlamp. The hint of red gleams from its shadows, erased his memories, dissolved his heart hurts. The concrete surrounding the lone streetlamp breathed life into his bluish veins, into his bloodline.
You desire to paint me, to cover the scars along my chest. The white and the pink and the lavender. You want to wash away November's stains. To cleanse me with the stroke of your fingertips, with the stroke of your coiled brush. My deep blue eyeliner is heavy. My lips are painted.