The Woman Who Shook in the Blue Chair Room

Shook her face in half,
shook until her mind
was a spattered cave
of hyper, splash back,
groovy, Jazz Funk – she
became an abstract
expressionary movement.
When she cried, the colour
inside her throat was the colour
of sky, at its brightest under sun
and she cried clouds the shape
of swans, of smears, of smiley faces.
She had puffy ankles from all
her stamping to the beat
and her chair was a throne,
a sapphire throne of blue
and her words wrote blue and
the heart she left on the wall
was blue and the scribbles and
blotches were blue but
her toenails were painted
red.