Canvas Poem by Kai Ford

Repeated persistence of your question reminds me of the ancient Chinese torture
Drip-drop, drip-dropp in the center of my forehead
As it bores thru my consciousness
The sound of your raised voice beginning to bury
my emotions, which are well en route to becoming completely submerged
You ask “Paint me a picture Kristin”
And I wonder, how can I paint the picture
When you have no sight to view it, nor the vision to aid it?
However, I acquiesced.

Hmm. The picture.

I use vivid hues of optimism
Nothing bold at first
I don’t want to paralyze your perception’s cornea
NO chakra orange because it’s clear you don’t want to be stimulated emotionally
So instead I choose the color persimmon.

I paint bi-monthly visits w/a purpose, cards, gifts, poems, flowers
Ichat dates, packages to brighten your day, if we advanced-family introductions,
Exchange of trusts, raw communication of the good and evil
Whatever it takes for both of us to feel comfortable in the current state.
I’m using all I know that makes a human feel secure,
When distance is the bridge between definite and never.

I look at my creation and I’ve used almost every color imaginable
Starting from the mundane to the boldest brightest colors created
All to help you see, what you can’t see.
Bright pink, chartreuse, crimson, cobalt, cyan, bright yellow, violet
Ecru, India green, khaki, taupe, lavender, gold, acquamarine, olive
Rose, hunter green, royal blue, salmon, sienna, and terra cotta
Can you see what I so vividly see?
It’s a bit overwhelming to explain and I feel the undeniable lump in my throat.
I feel the breaking of my will and the shedding of some of my own hardened exterior.

After it's completion, I blush a cute coral color.
Cheeks hot like Kilauea's lava
Lips wax cold like a Siberian winter
In return, a dried response from you, like Atacama in it's most desiccated
My mental catalog turns to old pages where I was found explaining myself
Much like now, but back to the future regarding the present,
You hear me but are not listening with your heart.
You hear audible sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher but not the articulated emotions that accompany the words
The efficacy of the formed syllables are as worn as a 4th grader’s tennis shoes
after a summer full of folly.
I feel the simultaneous surge of embarrassment and pride.
I have yet to know, what difference did the painting make to you&your point of view?
I begin to clean off my brushes as I inform you to keep the painting as a gift.

‘Nothing Is Easy to the Unwilling’ I read in a Nikki Giovan ni poem in high school
and this applies to you my dear heart.
How can I paint the picture for you
And you haven’t even supplied the canvas?