Blackberries are like purple smiling paint bombs. We pick hundreds, eat a lot and bring home enough to make a gorgeous blue – like night.
We pick the moon. Pinch it
Between a thumb and a finger.
Don’t crush it, I say,
Let’s eat it. I throw mine up
Before you look into space
Where your moon should be.
I’ve lost you I think.
Then you smile, purple, side-eyed
Biting into air, slurping
Juice bursting from your lips.
More Mama, more moon!
The dyed papers and inks are lovely and I think I am going to struggle to draw on and with them. I am distracted by their selves. The papers are each a landscape. The ink thickens with its own sugars, and leaks leaving reservoirs of colour and pattern. It rolls through the mordant slowly like a smoke ring.
to be two 