She paints roses under heavy skies. Purple,
the color of bruised plums. The artistry is in knowing
her audience, their heart-beaten stutter riding
on airbrushed waves. She plucks petals to scatter
on floating tea leaf wreaths. Silk scarves
crease the fringes of her wrists. Across the sway,
she fears nothing but the vast emptiness that’s focused on vanishing.
Hallelujah in a vacuum. She works to fill the world with hues.
Plum, the color of bruised purple. Bruise, the color of fruit
aging on absinthe leaves. She was young once,
and learned to love caterpillars. Young once
and painted morning shades of amber on Pleiades.
A frieze climbs the wall to the ceiling. She lies against it,
labors in monochrome, births on a palette, embraces
the world in a splash of chromaticity. She grows
linseed that she marks with etchings of wild horses.
She is the rider, the ridden, a splash
of bareback footholds – brown, umber, walnut,
and sepia. She is eternal, as old as she needs to be.
She crafts murals upon murals, finds beauty in grey,
wisdom in domed brushes, harlequin tipped.
Under heavy skies, she paints roses.
Buds leak purple into her hands.
Mureall Hebert lives near Seattle, WA. Her work can be found in The Normal School, Sundog Lit, The Adirondack Review, Cease, Cows, Carve, Hobart, [PANK], decomP, and elsewhere. She’s been nominated for Best New Poets, a Pushcart Prize, and was a finalist in Split Rock Press’s 2020 chapbook contest. She holds an MFA from the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts. Twitter: @mureallhebert
Photo by Joshua Woroniecki from Pexels