by Marie-Andrée Auclair

I painted our kitchen grapefruit—bright
against any dull weather.

Today you enter the kitchen,
tornadoes spinning around your head,
your feet slowed by an invisible swamp.

I’ve tasted distant sweetness
under your molasses mood,
now I smell acrid tar.
Today, I will fail to lighten your mood

and remind you you are not alone.
You slog to the breakfast table,
spreading viscous gloom,
and its stench sticks to me.

I paint a smile on my face,
say a few sunny words, not too sunny,
not too bland, in a balance I will get wrong
as if you need me wrong and trying harder.

I spoon ginger-citrus marmalade
into a blue Wedgwood bowl. I flip
pancakes. You snap,
Do you always have to be so cheerful?

I wince, ignore the comment.
Don’t you care how I feel?
You watch me rest a hand
on your forearm. You flinch,

Hey, that’s your left hand,
do you hate me that much, can’t you…

No, today, I can’t…Today,
I am painting a blue sky, a kind ocean,
white sails for the ketch,
and a fierce wind to free it from anchor.

Marie-Andrée Auclair’s poems have found homes in several countries, in print and online publications such as Bywords (Canada), 34 Orchard (USA), The Frogmore Papers (UK), Eunoia (Singapore), and Tokyo Poetry Journal (Japan). She lives in Canada and enjoys photography, traveling, and adding to her cooking repertoire after each trip.