The walls are yellow,

not bright,

but pale like the sun when it

sneaks 

into your room in the morning,

past the curtains that Sara sewed last month.

Or maybe it’s more like the yellow in the blooms in the painting

above your head,

or in the chair right beside you,

with its hot silk and a pattern like the flowers in the garden.

He wants to paint a picture of you.

They’ve asked him to,

and they’ve curled your hair

and put you

in a yellow dress that looks like the

walls and the flowers and the chair.

It’s supposed to be pretty, but it has

too much lace,

and your hair is heavy with the bows

they put in it.

There’s a small blue vase on the table beside you,

and you have to be careful not to knock

it over or they might

slap

you

like they did this morning for getting dirt

on your stockings.

The room is familiar, with its one

high window and the

walls and the flowers and the chair and the vase,

as he paints a picture of you.