(For Bea Last)
If the paint dries,
it dries.
No question;
nothing stays
saturated. A fresh coat? A fence-post?
Canvases crack. The face
of the actress.
But what if
green was more than green, if
green was verdant
dewy,
sweating grass
beneath your fingertips, bottle-glass-green,
smooth jeweled chips
of green glass you find washed
on shore
what if
you pocketed the color & it bled
through the fabric,
what if the gallery called
& commissioned
your blue jeans
what if
the denim faded
By Reka Jellema
Copyright April 2016