Sunflower
by
Margaryta Golovchenko
after Joan Mitchell’s Untitled, about 1969
I would like to inform you that madame
has been cancelled as a form of address — so
has lady/miss/kind nurturing soul, the one
who always feeds others before herself
only to end up with a spoon stuck to the roof of her mouth
from hurry, teeth a springing trap.
I ask you to set aside what you know about the feminine —
no point saying forget because presumptions
take root faster than dandelions
will realize they’re swelling with pride —
so that you can look at me like at a smudged streak across a canvas:
terrifyingly
promising, open
to interpretation
but with something to say.
Dwell on the thought for as long as it takes you to realize
that when I turn my head to have a look I am not responding nor giving attention,
am not basking on both ends of the sunbeam. My neck cranes
to help the eyes take in each scrap of colour
that your grayscale gaze dutifully categorized
purposeful/pointless
