Some things never leave you,
like the taste of strawberries
in summer. Like your father
saying you thought yourself
the Queen of Sheba and a few
years later escorting you down
the rose-petaled aisle as if
you were. Like the swaddled
and wonder-eyed innocence,
peaking at you from under
the warm pink blanket at 5:07
the afternoon of April Fool’s
in ’82, her blood-tinged hair
a mid-summer night’s dream,
and wavy, like a washboard.
Like Galanda’s Pink Madonna,
mother and child skin to skin,
the forever-sweet scent
of their tender embrace. And
how do you forget a spouse’s
unrelenting silence, lonely,
like mulled-wine shadows,
when his tiny dancer trades
her lighthearted-tinge-of-pink
leotards and flamingo-pink tutu
for long white veil and bridal gown.
Published: Ekphrastic Review, Aug. 2024 as part of the Tickled Pink challenge.
Artwork: Mikuláš Galanda’s Pink Madonna, 1933