She’s an artist. You can tell by her edgy haircut, her imaginative smile, and the brightly-colored tattoo on her neck. The piercing in her cheek says she’s unafraid to express and won’t regret it when she does.
Forgive her. No woman true to the craft would parade in a threadbare uniform with untied suntan-colored work boots that shuffle with a thud; but it’s the only way she can express herself in a place where count, chow, and class are mandatory. Her elastic waist pants are emblazoned with her last name in thick marker down the side of her thigh and hang like a dude holding his belt down low when he crosses the street. Van Gogh’s canvas was much more than ball point pen and stolen marker. So she slashes her arm just enough to let the colors seep through. Urged by a muted blade, she sees reds, dried browns, and scarlet in the blood drips.
Because she sketched out those colors, she must bear the burden of seven similar days.
in a square cell without textures other than rough
in a space without hues to occupy her eyes
in sight of the concrete blocks and not the four trees outside
in sight of white-shirted officers with chaos as her focal point
She’s been up all night, watched by eyes who are paid to look. Watched by those who don’t understand that her Picasso dried mid-flow just in time for this gallery showing behind the bars and glass.
They think she’s dying, but she’s really desperate to live.
REVEALING PANES 