An indigo painted dream lies here
as a beacon for all who seek to dream.
Ripples cascading forever and into the past
long for those who are full; a denied
absence of colour, prolonged interrogations
and still, a silent curse
blessed on the head of one who is asleep.
The words here are pure,
resistant to fire and calming to hands cool
and fragrant of dying roses.
Words are linked to a forgiving blessing
given by a priest or witch doctor
who rattles the bones of dead goddesses.
Supple and limber are the dreams
awakened by the non blue non black painting,
giving those who have lost hope a chance to blink.
My eyes, still crying from when I was born
are stained the same colour as the painting-
my scarlet letter for a new generation.
Guilt: a form of controlling others.
Nonsense to those who fear
an otherwise bastard of a tale.
Fires, small and large, smell sweetly
of the herbs thrown in, giving off such heady scents
that we can not help ourselves but rather sing.
From the indigo painting to the fire
that was started by fish who knew better.
Atrocious, I think (such a humble writer am I),
to prefer the light to the dark,
of saints and shadows, of sunflowers and water lillies,
here I stand before you, on trial for my creation
of what sets people free. Guilt, they tell me,
comes not from me but rather what lies behind me-
the painting of indigo, of colour and of none.
Yet they see my eyes ringed with sweat,
they see my eyes of indigo,
they see my painting of indigo.
My guilt becomes my skin.
She is what you make of her.
I can not take credit for her birth
but how I wish I could; she comes from the painting,
the central force of the dreaming and the lost.
To touch her is to forever sleep, snuggled
deep within the folds of a womb of black.
She is not coarse; soft hands guide me and only me
towards the painting that I both love and fear.
The silence surrounds us, swallows the writer whole
and later, much later, is awakened by the
sounds of the sea; at last, the writer
is in the painting, a captive willing
to desert all she knew of before.
This is her pardon for the guilt
(I am made clear again)
made recognizable by the trial that never happened.
And this, you may ask me,
what of this? What is next?
What is before and what has occurred?
I smile and say "Nothing."