Self Portrait as a Still Life.

Liz Adams

I'll be the robin's-egg blue

pitcher in my mother's pantry ––

Where I would search for silver

and linens on fine Sundays.


Or, given the choice, a pink peony

flush with a whorl of nowness.


I'll speak to you boldly with my hues:

titanium white, quinacridone rose. 

One hundred petals of a story ––

each ruffled and veined,

Leading to my egg-yolk

center of golden occasions. 

Cup me in your hands, bury

your face in my perfumed core

Where the colors congregate

before fading at the edges. 

Set me in the blue pitcher,

let the right light catch. 

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