Blacken my arms with the lines,
and structure my colour blocks.
Paint me Mondrian, and leave me be.
There’s an art to this, to living
inside the lines that restrict us,
bleeding away as we dry,
coming at me with a bouquet of
pistols, pastels, bristles,
soaking me to the bones of
my carnival feathers and charades,
we play this game.
I wish to wake up tomorrow morning,
and see the hands coming through the lawn,
like a shunned dance in a green parade,
where our bodies once stacked.
I’ll be whatever you need me to be
in this dying town we buried away.
Colour me Mondrian,
and I’ll rise to the occasion.