Tiny Imperfections

Warped from the weight of paint, and hands, and plaster
colors, vibrant, swim across its length:
an ocean sunset
an arc of flame
a tired, twilight storm.

And here--the end is tightly wrapped in bandages of glue
cracked and faded, so the paint shines through.

Who can say how many others have held this,
how many walls came alive when hands, laughing,
pushed this slender stick aside to drown their brush
in these hazy, shining, creamy hues?
And who knows how many masks, façades, first breathed
with this plaster coating their lungs, caking their cheeks?

Perhaps these tiny imperfections--
bubbles on the surface--
are a fingerprint.

Perhaps my hands are echoing another's,
retracing their steps.

Like stars, I see the afterimages
(preserved in paint, and hands, and plaster)
of life in this room, and on this stage;
the colors have come from somewhere.

-Madeline S.

(The imagery assignment. Based on the stir stick that inhabits the lower shelf of the DVD cart.)