MONDAY, NOVEMBER 5

The only thing I can paint in studio is red.

Not a red apple

Not a red rose

Not a red anything

just my brush dragging slow

and deadly across the canvas

like stripes of exposed organs

like roadkill

like a vein opening for a knife.

Ms. Gupta pauses at my shoulder

and I can hear the wet sound

of her mouth starting to open

and then changing its mind

before she moves on

down the aisle, away

from the scene of this murder.

My hand keeps moving

and so does the clock’s

and by the end of the period

I am just standing to yank

the whole painting into the trash

when someone appears at my side

close enough for me to smell

their lotion: rose water,

sweet and soapy.

I look up and find Geneva’s eyes

studying the riot on the page

the canvas white only at the edges.

I don’t know what it means is all I can manage,

because this is what Ms. Gupta is always asking

us to consider, but

Geneva only cocks her head, and I get the feeling

she’s walking through the mess of it,

seeing that some of the organs exposed

on the page

are mine.

I don’t think you have to, she says.

Not until you’re ready.