Amy Lerman

Harold and The Purple Crayon

Don’t be surprised when you wake early,
the sun’s window streaks pathing you
to the bathroom, and you see me
outlined in purple, drawn into the wall.
I liked watching you drift last night only
moments after you laughed at the sitcom,
but your snores silenced our ceiling fan’s
whirr, the television, me, so I left you, the cat
burrowed into your side, for the ribbon-tied,
purple crayon you gave me last Valentine’s
Day, an homage to my favorite children’s
book and my memory
—or is it yours now?—
of crayoning my name, incorrectly spelled,
all over Aunt Elaine’s newly-painted walls.
Of course, I know people with mortgages don’t
color their walls—
though, in all fairness, I’ve told you about
our neighbors growing up, the ones who
muraled the front of their house in The Yellow
Submarine cover—
and I should follow the sleep hygiene instructions
for insomnia—
            Sit in a chair in the dark because the bed
is reserved for two things: sleep and hanky panky—
but, I can’t, and oh, how our hallway’s
wall yearned
for that apple tree trunk, strong enough
to house so much ripe fruit I drew
into its foliage. I can reenact Eden,
if you like, draw my hair longer
to cover breasts, a handed apple, and once
you are here, we can
crayon a mountain
or a balloon
or a moonlit path
to keep us
from getting lost. 

Amy Lerman lives with her husband and very spoiled cats in the Arizona desert where she is residential English Faculty at Mesa Community College. Her chapbook, Orbital Debris (Choeofpleirn Press, 2022) won the 2022 Jonathan Holden Poetry Chapbook Contest, she has been a Pushcart nominee, and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Box of Matches, The Madison Review, Midwest Review, Radar Poetry, Rattle, and other publications.