Watercolour

Blood flows

rivers of veins channel through the landscape of my body,

oxygenated red, but not hot enough to boil away

my impurities.

I compensate,

 

embrace green,

slide the guide of the colour wheel around to learn

the hues of grass, of leaves in the spring

of the algae floating in the dead ponds

I have dammed up in my mind.

Nothing gets in,

 

nothing gets out.

Remembering yellow

on a blank white sheet,

a grade seven art-class sun painted

with rays descending from the upper left corner.

Rainy days in an abandoned car at my grandparent’s farm,

my aunt teaching me how to shade and outline

colouring book flowers.

Finding melted remnants later

in a box forgotten on the dashboard.

Nostalgia

 

fades to blue,

becomes a speck in a surfeit of sky,

reflects in waters as if grief is soluble,

can be swallowed.

A throat chakra, if you like

 

to choke off the air, silence the voice

when fear conquers speech.

Or to build up the reservoir in my mind,

overflow the barriers I have built up,

carry the green along,

stain the yellow

blend with the red to flow down

into the ground.

Spilling out brown,

released.

What are you looking for?