The First Painting

*submission for jingle poetry's potluck week 44 "painting whispers"*


In the midst of his struggle
to shape fake fruit lying
in a ceramic beige bowl and garnished
with wilting dandelions, that he found
springing from a crack
at the edge of the road the day before
he threw his palette to the floor.

Kneeling down beside the pieces of shattered
white plastic and primary smears
he gripped his brush like a knife
and plunged it into every color.

He dragged this weapon
over his open palm.
He twisted and swirled it viciously
swiping hues of red and blue
thrashing whites and strange purples
over his callouses
until the bristles splayed out
like palmetto leaves
singed in the morning sun.

When he paused to catch his breath
his eyes fell on the small canvas
that used to be his pale flesh
and it was black.
A textureless, infinite darkness
that swallowed all values and dimensions
of the rainbow he had attempted
to entangle in his fingers.