I thought I was using too much yellow when I painted.
Still, there are smudges of yellow everywhere:
canary yellow on the door handle,
pacman yellow on an old shirt.
But when I look back on my paintings from that time,
those modest relics are un-fair to my recollections.
I could scarcely believe the short stack.
Why did I bring it everywhere with me?
I blush when I think about it now:
yellow was my favourite colour then,
so when I found a place where it fit,
with thoughtless relish, I put it.
I thought that would mean it would be in every painting,
but what it did is make me look at every one,
noting when yellow was missing,
grimacing that it was for the best.
I wanted to stop grimacing;
I still paint, of course.
I ran out of yellow sometime ago.
I run out of colours all the time.
It’s an easy walk to the store,
to top up on what I’m missing.
I buy reds, greens, and blues—
a hole in my mind where the yellow sits.
I tell myself I can get it next time;
next time I won’t want it so badly.
But I did get plenty of orange and white
for sad facsimiles when in need.
Now, I consider my next painting,
tearing my eyes away from the room’s brightness
(there are blotchy fist-sized suns dried on the walls,
and gold-stained palette shards swept to the side).
Yellow is still my favourite colour—
I recall my old paintings enviously—
and it feels like a punishment
because I’m here, grimacing at a blank canvas.