Liz buries her raw tiles in sand at the beach to fire,
willing color, not white - color.
She wants the vibration of blue, red, yellow,
purple, green, indigo, orange, hues and tints.
She never leaves the burning,
sits there as the sun moves across the sky,
seers color, seams. The flame turns to ash.
She tells of rape.
No pain, she says, only compassion,
for the pain in the man,
who banged her head to concussion,
and slashed her back on glass.
The technician in the hospital,
would not touch her.
“He would not touch me,” she says,
more hurt by that than the man,
who banged her head to concussion.
She felt his pain,
The technician was sterile,
absorbing no color,
of kelp, dung, copper.
Her tiles broke in the fire, to colors,
fish, swimming round,
each scale weighing the weight,
of angels hovering,
hoping to assimilate,