Vermilion, Maybe

A parrot, a toucan, a horse’s head, and a girl in red shoes follow a manikin walking like an Egyptian into the room where I used to dream. None of them speak. They just rearrange the brushes on the table and wait for me to notice what I left undone. The Virgin of Guadalupe smiles at their shenanigans— a parrot on her shoulder now, the manikin offering a rainbow shoelace, like a ribbon of penance. Her mandorla ripples— not with judgment but something warmer, forgiveness braided with laughter. She doesn’t speak, but the shoelace glows in her open hands. Then the toucan sneezes and vanishes in glitter. The girl curtsies to the Virgin. The horse’s head rolls against the leg of my easel, and comes to rest facing me. I still don’t know what any of it means— only that I’m reaching for vermilion, maybe.