My whole body is an itch I cannot scratch
fingers cannot find any inch of skin that will release me.
My heart wears cashmere- what fancy torture
my lungs corset-laced with wool yarn- sewn in, out, in, out
my sleeps are restless, riddled with half-dreaming and talking aloud
my waking- quick, jolting
and I tumble out of repose, electric, electronic
jitterbugging with the urgency of an itchy soul.

I need to move.
My insides know it.

I never much cared for watercolours
I always lose the pigments in the wash
vistas doomed to be overcast
in the pine groves wept from a flaking brush.
I don't like that kind of responsibility.

Give me oil. Thick like Cleopatra's
the meat of all mediums
heat the world with ochre, umber, crimson
spread me with a knife, with sinning hands
my eyes flick around the canvas
wipe the frosting on my red dress
a guilty nun's habit.

But the tide is out again.
The spectrum fades.
Today is for watercolours.
I'll drip steadily from the canvas
and live in the stains on the hardwood floor
peering upward and waiting for April.

In the Garden there was a man
a quiet maker of boutonnieres
whose sunflower grin stirred pollen.

In the Garden there was a bird
a hummingbird, a quiet maker of songs
who steeped within his mirth, thirsty for more.

And now she tastes his flowers everywhere
as he weaves them into his lapel
that she might always flit home
just below the crook of his smile
and just above his April heart.