by Ashley Narsu

It is quiet in this garden,
the hidden heaven where I’ve
placed myself today. The sun bakes
my neck, I arrange my easel,
palette knives, paints, brushes
into some semblance of organization.
The hum of the trees, alive with birds, bugs,
and branches that catch the wind
floods my mind, my anger slips
into the paint. I think of home.
Will it ever feel the same?
What if I took this pain, the ache that doesn’t budge,
and put it in this sweeping curtain of green?
Dot it with pink, purple, and orange,
And sell it, glossy and done up with a bow,
to someone who will never know
what made it.
My chest is laden with the knowledge
that I am small. It clings to me
like my paint hugs the canvas, leaves
a dull buzz on my skin.
It is quiet in this garden,
the trees bend towards me.
They must sense an organism
that has never known the stability
of a home like this. A give and take
between the air and the ground, the
branches and the birds, the flowers
and the bees.
The painting is pretty. It will look good
on someone’s wall.