as she sits at the table
with her fingers like lids,
opening shades, shading,
shaded lines and smudges
on white paper, practicing
for when the burning gets too strong,
for when the darkness floods her soul,
for when fire pours out of her eyes
without control, without limit, practicing
for those days and nights
so that when they come,
the canvasses will be like familiar jars,
each one opened and each one filled
and each one an expression of moonlight,
both illuminating and hauntingly transparent,
like many versions of wild fire under black night.
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