am i nothere -
in the words, in the juice
of a ripe watermelon
carved
in the jade rind and rose pulp
that is my life -
a tourmaline bouquet
crystallising on canvas
in a perpetual "now"
before the first sweetness
has rotted away,
after the brush sweeps
my last sticky stroke
how many more fruit
will have sprung
from this painting's
own slippery seeds?
hortensia anderson
