Listening to songs as a mother rinsing her brushes

Lately when painting, the greens aren’t right in the head:
ruddied & weak; backlashed & dilated.

I’ve been listening to too many songs with baby in them—
nearly every songwriter uses babai to appeal to the masses.

I’ve never called anyone babe except when my son was new-born
& that lasted less than I thought. When I picked up my brush again

he was doing sums & learning complex nouns.
Before motherhood I wore bangles & tight skirts, now I wear

a size too big, so the seams don’t dig into my motherly body.
My painterly body is screaming for a rich velvety green;

a sexy babe of a jade; an expensive emerald, a bottle-green lagoon;
a dead sea where I can wash every brush clean & swim

in the marbled water of my paint. Swim like a baby born from
mother-water into world-water; get the colours just-right in my head.