Her name is Magenta
She makes life feel like a fable,
Running on train platforms to catch unicorns flying to the Brooklyn Art Museum and Abyssinian restaurants.
She paints with a mixture of crushed ochre, wet lilacs, and oil:
Her paintbrushes are enchanted.
She practices with each picture, until for painting she is paid.
Offertory grins offering the World through her eyes.
Offhand politeness, a pretty bird from down South.
Doing slightly better on her Odyssey than Odysseus:
Her only offense, singing octagonal octaves with tremble fit only for October.
It’s that frighteningly authentic.
Official oddity, settling into her weirdness
That psychology officiates.
Her head cocked in analyzation,
An amendment to her peers’ playfully shallow scope,
And a nod to her ancestors.
She is analogous to a princess,
Petals envelope her lavender body as she drops them every now and again
Like the globe’s flower girl decorating dirty streets.
by: Yours Truly (Lauren Akins)