Muralista in the taproom in Chalk Ghosts

She drags a stick of cerulean
Screeching across the virgin blacktop
skipping then silent
One smooth arc above her head

It’s the ridge of an owls wing
Rim of a brown bottle
Moon
lamp glow
Postcard Lovers
“Harambe Lives!”
snow on a muddy bank
-oh and Happy Birthday!

Her hand never shakes
when she’s drawing shapes
Each new color
gives breath
Her hand dances
as her mind awakens.

“Oh! Oh! This is the thing!”
you know the thing-the meaning-
the reason why I live

Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-
goes the cadmium red
as it lights the Maumee on fire.

The dust rises in the space
between her face
and the world she creates
she inhales
and soon tastes it
calcium
settling on a sour film
on the back of her tongue.

She coughs
but the spell doesn’t break
Invisibility
Only the sounds of pastel and slate.