My hand holds no brush.
This dish is what I have. And children,
lovely clatter of voices flooding the days.
Eggs scrambled, boys off to school.
The little one plays dolls
while another sleeps, her weeks- old breath
rowing ceaseless, hungry
while I dream canvasses stretching
outlines on ocher- soaked linens,
Earth- dug umber, sienna, yolk yellows,
wet, oily and waiting to bleed

thick and gummy from the brush,
the scent an ether in my veins
leaves me lightheaded, anointed
by the gods I might have stolen from.

Now the baby cries
and here she is, moist,
smelling of milky cotton, absorbing
this minute, the hazy hours. I’ll spill years
to her as the earth changes faces,
greens of summer rusting into autumn
and in winter, the north light
catching fire in the braids of her hair.