by Miranda Peake
You take me on a tour of women –
we start with sisters, blue and grey they bleed
into each other. Cardigan arms loosely painted
over shoulders, they lean in and talk about
the brushstrokes, while a daughter enters
from the left. Sketched hastily, her haircut
and face sharp with intent, her way of walking off
while they are talking. Her palette of greens
and greys, tarmac black for hair. She’s quickly lost,
washed over by a messy crowd of purple and gold.
Each small girl coloured neatly to the hems
of blazers and skirts. They muck about, dropping
sketchbooks, dancing up to art as if they were
old friends, and though I’ve been a woman for a while,
I want to go back and start the painting all over again.
Marlene by Miranda Peake first appeared in Issue 7 of Bare Fiction Magazine (May 2016).