There is an impressionist
living inside of my ribcage.
In the early hours, she sits up straight and sips Earl Grey.
There is always a stash tucked in between the right side of the couch
that rests on my upper abdomen.
All she needs is boiling water; a little milk, a little sugar to make it sweeter.
She then pulls the pinecones and lilac petals through my eyes.
It takes time for her to bite into the sharp edges
but she savors the blue, soft parts.
Sometimes it’s difficult for her to swallow; she must play audacious.
The vibrant colors stain her teeth
and her tongue is always a cherry red.
She uses what she takes in to capture what is
transient, pure, or painful; but a sort of uncertainty is always ribboned around her waist.
She taps my collar bone with her brush and
through the key-hole,
she murmurs, “I just want to be
en plein air.”
And I tell her,
“No, no, no. This is what we want.
We want the someday where we can reach into the sky;
our arms will stretch past the seagulls, higher than the tip of the tower.
And we’ll saw off a piece of the morning, a cube of Light.
We’ll mash it;
smash it up into a trillion, tiny pieces
until the light-bits become a fine powder.
Then we’ll spit in it
and rub the mixture into our eyes, onto our lips, inside of our ears.
We’ll scrub in the water ’til we can fearlessly see.
We won’t always be born blind
and we will speak.
That’s when we’ll paint on the ground.”
Theresa Chumacero is a poet from Chino, CA. She currently works as an ESL English teacher at a high school in Upland. She is happiest when exploring art galleries or standing before the ocean.