Mixing Paint

Posted: August 8, 2015 in Guest Writers


Beka Moon

My parents made me like they were mixing paint.

This is something I know in the dark, when the house is quiet,

and the past is made of desire:

theirs, mine. This. Now. Yes.

We are all born of impatience, and heat, and skin spreading, sinking and moving across the palette.

This is something impossible to know in the daylight. It makes me see the present, the terrible middle of all things.

I don’t know where the future is.

My mother’s hands are large, long-fingered,

pricked with needles, with pins, with things that are never quite finished.

She tells me a story about marriage, about the memory of swollen bellies, and religion, and how sometimes, fire is just a story you once heard, a myth. Like alligators in the sewer, or the grief of Demeter.

I hear her. Now. Yes.

I know what this means.

It means you take what you can get

in case you don’t get anything.

You surrender. You retreat until mixing paint is just using bodies.

This is how I know my parents made me in daylight, in desperation, in deep cadmium yellow. And so I love the moon.

Some part of her is always dark.


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