At forty-one, it seems I should know
that the first color I need isn’t white,
or peach, isn’t manila or pearl, not bone,
but purple. The shade surrounding

my face, followed closely by heavily
diluted red and orange, particularly
around my nose and chin, representative

of blood within, such translucent skin.
A touch of yellow sets off the light
on my forehead, where hair doesn’t cast

a shadow. My blue eyes – the most striking
surprise is not color at all, but white—hint
of a glisten. And what joy to paint a plain black
shirt. This was me. Is me. Was me. For a moment. 

Katie Kemple works as a media consultant. Her poetry labyrinth began last century in a meadow in upstate New York with Shakespeare’s collected works and a broken chair. She currently lives with her family in Southern California.