Synaesthete

Sometimes writing makes me feel cold.

That flute has gone all white and glassy,

crushed ice behind my throat.

Strings of deep woody greens,

Not just a colour behind my eyes,

But a sense of branches,

pushing back on my shoulders.

That chord there -

The way it’s stacked, edges blended

shading pinks and nudes and lilacs.

My bright blue piccolo flashing on high,

His baritone voice like a warm red bath,

I reach for sounds like pigments

that have somehow also seeped into my skin.

I read somewhere that Brahms felt like this.

I hope I can be half the painter he was.

- Laura Stevens