Paint him blue,
the shade of summer sky and surging sea,
the aching azure of cornflowers
Not the red of flaming distemper,
or the orange of winter embers.
Blue like his sainted soul, the sadness
you could not save him from. The blue of silent space,
that lies beneath the black when stars come out
and he grins down at you from due north of Orion’s belt.
Colour in the detail in bold white and silver,
he must not be one dimensional.
Pick out his eyes in lilac, near black
don’t think of bruises but black current cordial
fresh made with ice and lime in a summer garden.
Etch in the outline of the ghost
that walks the miles in your footsteps,
The flip side of Aries the reflection in your bedroom mirror.
Paint in longing sighs, emasculation, fruition
the pain of operations, birth
the end. The joy, then colour in goodbye.
I have a lovely friend who is preparing herself for a massive step, to leave behind all she was not, trapped in the wrong body and become on the outside what she has always been on the inside.