“Sangre de Las Mariposas”
They paint with Their fingertips; slowly but surely, making no
haste. Wisps of silky color, a paintbrush of gold.
Xanadu awaits seemingly close; the watercolor bleeds.
Little light. The smear of powdered vermillion.
The parchment walls crackled with a deep clap of thunder
horses hooves pound; loudly, loudly, loudly.
The taste of tart lemon peals illuminates the forgotten shadow
of The Predecessor and all that remains is hollow.
There was a time that the flowers were ashes, yet now the thorn pricks
and a scar is inevitable. A beautiful wax oozes till pressing thumbs
burn; the lines etched in my palm are eternal. The chocolate
of a milkier shade is now a far richer one, painfully bitter. The potpourri
of memory scorches my curdled hands; an ebony maple heaves
tediously, though the fruits borne are sweet. Blood, Lōhī;
opulent in fathomless ways, dirties hands once pure as the
driven snow. Now it’s blushing waves of anger fervid and vehement;
coal embers running stuck at the back of a throat; eyes prickling
with lunula-shaped tears. The shackles of melancholy age like
a fine Lagavulin splashing against crumbling rocks; crinkling softly.
Generous, yet Her most vulnerable, conspicuous petrichor
laces through mundane and salty fingertips; lingering. Oleander crimson
conceals within the coarse woven fibers; rook, bishop, knight. Feeble
they sway coloring the bereft night with splintering crystal
sugar but not the stars, still scintillating. Forevermore They dance,
quivering with insecure plight; a pastel of iridescent silver wanders.
Blackened toes mercilessly spill; the powder. The lazy streaks
sharpen with a bland focus; the murmur of mariposas akin; until
The Charcoal gasps for the ode of Poisson Rouge.
Diya Mehta is and always has been a voracious poet, reader, and writer; she currently resides in Paradise Falls complete with her very own set of balloons. She enjoys learning about new philosophies and devouring an immense amount of Sylvia Plath literature.