I touched your accent
with my hand
and scooped up
its thick drawl
with a gentlegrasp,
some seeped
into the pavement
but a few dropsremained
for me to paint with.
I drew your dreams
ina deep, dying purple
and gazed at the ground,
tastingthe bitter picture
with my eyes.
My fingers
werealready stained
poppy violet
so I rolled
in yourpicture
until I felt your life
in my skin.
But don'tbe fooled,
my son, I too,
felt the tightness
of thethick paint
as it dried
and made a mold of me.
Itfell in chunks
as I strained to walk
and made purplepuddles
as it fell to the wet ground.
My life as asculptress
was short-lived.