the artist she knew she was always
meant to be.
It was already a fact
at birth when her fingers
trailed impressionist milk
across her mother's chest.
Her face squashed with
all the wisdom that presses in
from being formed on the
other side of time.
A vestige of the kisses of God
left on her ears,
the petals of a newly born flower.
Colours mixed on a canvass -
an ooze of paint,
a sigh of brush...
and the beat of the drum
of her pulse speaks.
Her silence makes music.
Jenneth Graser
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