Making Vermilion

I note in the distance
the creaky door of the ramshackle house
crammed between chipped paint edges.

A widow with a painter’s smock
stands in the frame.

Fraying corners and technicolour oranges
patterned on her gravel dusted sandals,
summer sun seeping into veins
filling a cavity once forgotten and
leaving behind a spillage of freckles.

The smattering of dried paint bits
on the wooden paintbrush is
vaguely aquamarine –
listless and tender,
a colour come undone.

Inside she is vermilion
like the fire that licked Joan’s feet
or the colour of her beating heart
under cropped hair and men’s clothes
as she led the French to sunrise.

Purple pansies plucked carelessly
from the garden nestle in her hair,
they are in dire need of watering
but horticultural trivialities
never were a passion of hers.

Scraping and painting over,
again and again,
emptying and filling
falling and catching
she makes the process vivid.

The summer sun stretches out,
not scorching but rouging
her balmy skin,
making lightness compared
to the deep crimson colour underneath.

The edges of the door slowly
shed their skin, becoming red
and she smiles at the colour.

The door of the house creaks and
I now understand that
when there’s nothing left to burn
you have to set yourself on fire.