The raped woman with a paintbrush in her hand.
She has forgotten for a moment what she is painting,
the dripping color so like the breast feathers
of a purple finch. She breathes the origins
of the paint: vinyl polymer, quartz, silica from sand,
the water of a river. Pushing the wet hairs
flat against the rim, she watches as the paint runs
slowly down the side of the can, acquainting
the label with erasure. Here is the windowsill
emptied of its geraniums and iris.
Here is the wall, forgetful of its blossom.
She slides on her knees over hardwood to an oval
space of sun. There are endless ways to kiss.
She thinks how any minute he will come.

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