Ancestors

A canvas almost her height,

the pink so potent and unrecognizable

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outside of watermelons, she called it red.

This red was oceanic, brushed instantaneously,

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the strokes left bare, like a texture plastered

into the perpetual wall. This red couldn’t hold

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back its saturation. This red didn’t care if it startled

the viewer. This red felt like a swarm of bees. It felt

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like working under the sun, and it felt like calling

the children in to eat. When she stretched her palms

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before the painting, the red turned itself into a mist.

It took a brief pause in the museum air before it

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gripped onto the cells in her palms.