10 Petaled Room

I never draw now tho.

When I was a child - less than half this age,
before so many ties to social order, constructions,
      staring out the window at the birds and holding a larger hand through
      the maze of paintings, and landing in front of what is now languaged
      as an ‘abstract’
led to a foray into not-a-teacher, not-a-mother.
Then imagination but now fantasy
in yellows and golds – the color of someone’s money,
      that world hummed to me, covered me in tufts of furry down.

I wore it across my breasts (little dots)
and sashayed with it woven through my hair.
“Clean this up” he scolded while packing the truck,
      as they were splayed, piled and splayed,
      yolky blonds and lemons.

I had only -
yellow crayons -
a sulfurous pile of saffron –
and do you know how hard it is -
to cover the skin in waxy color ?

My room an illuminated desert,
secrets explained in gold upon gold, burning as it was most certainly for the great painter,
bronzed megacities Babel and Atlantis, giants, old women and snakes in amber
there (I’m pointing at the walls remembered)
that color wore me
      “how nice to see you again dear” said as I zipped myself around the cream.
I was its sail,
my yellow brushed the world as sun,
my yellow was crystal then,

not like the shit they show now – rants
not like the crap hung knotted these days,
not like the in-your-pants snout-to-tail walk
masquerading
as my yellow.