of Georgia O’Keeffe

In Which I Am Visited by the Ghost of Georgia O’Keeffe

I could not feel, much less know, but I kept spotting Georgia. The elderly painter in black and white pushing color like a horse pill into my palm, piercing me with her stare in New York, Boston, Chicago.

What would it take to love “Spring” again? To love even “Red Canna,” its violet petals folding snuggly into red. The red petals overflow the canvas’s edges. Finally, I touch myself to the thrum of a woman’s body. Her answer is coming.

That morning, Georgia’s ghost shimmies out from the crack beside my bed, tossing her hat onto my husband’s nightstand. She fumbles at her waistline, until a flower flips from a starched pocket.

Even beyond the grave, Georgia says she doesn’t paint vulvas. Skulls are hollowed heads, with or without horns. Flowers stand for flowers.

She offers, and I accept the bloom—a magenta glory.

Before I tell my husband, I make spinach and soy sausage. Already victorious, I fold myself onto his lap. He doesn’t want me any less. I want everything more.