![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/d_642250b563292b35f27461a7.png,f_jpg,fl_progressive,q_auto,w_1024/62e35eb7f027a2001e1c6f8a.jpg)
A canvas almost her height,
the pink so potent and unrecognizable
*
outside of watermelons, she called it red.
This red was oceanic, brushed instantaneously,
*
the strokes left bare, like a texture plastered
into the perpetual wall. This red couldn’t hold
*
back its saturation. This red didn’t care if it startled
the viewer. This red felt like a swarm of bees. It felt
*
like working under the sun, and it felt like calling
the children in to eat. When she stretched her palms
*
before the painting, the red turned itself into a mist.
It took a brief pause in the museum air before it
*
gripped onto the cells in her palms.
About the Creator
periwinkle_poet
Poems by a dark, sweet, and semi romantic Latina, all in one 😊 I'm finally sharing with you what I've been keeping to myself. I hope you enjoy!
If you like what you read, you can buy me a coffee! https://www.buymeacoffee.com/periwinkle_poet
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