Watercolors

It’s sunset, and the rain
is running through my fingers
like steaming tea. I imagine my body
as an expanse of dirt,
grass blooming where the droplets touch.
But this body doesn’t yearn for water,
only heat. The light, the womb
of colors on the horizon.
Scatter this ocean of watercolors, paint me
and my fingers, to blaze.
And let the smoke run through these hands:

leaving, unfolding, burning
for the sun. Nothing
against my skin except for rain,
colored with the mirage of sunset.

—By Taylor Fang ♦