Some stories seem made up
for poems.
This one isn’t.
My middle school art teacher
wanted us to divide
a sheet of paper
into a grid,
and decorate it with our names,
each square different.
A few days later
she held up my name
painted purple
among blue skies and yellow stars
chaotic, individual, yet cohesive as
the night’s sky
and said this was not
how the assignment was
supposed to go.
Things don’t go as we plan
in life and in art
I wanted to say;
I just wanted to paint
my name in the stars.
My ears burned
in the spotlight of my peers’ curiosity
at my reaction to her.
I didn’t say anything.
My fingers remained
too neat and clean
for years.
It wasn’t until a few months ago
that I learned
what Mr. Ross said is true:
“Every day is a good day
when you paint.”
My first creation after so long?
A beating, anatomically correct
heart.
It didn’t turn out
like I thought it would
but that’s how
it’s supposed to be.

Elizabeth Hoyle is a writer, poet, and a sometimes artist. Follow her on Twitter @ERHoyle.