Bursting Beakers

Have you ever met someone who failed to fit into any box?
Maybe they fill them all or just couldn’t be contained.
They would spill over any container, bouncing off the walls.

She would always surprise me as if to tell me “Just you wait and see!”
I imagined her like molten metal still hot and malleable,
still rebelling against that old time mold.

One garment, or shoe, or anything new, bubbles over.
A new song or sunset lights up her canvas like it’s the end of 1999.
Explosions of thoughts poor out, absorbing all the colors.

“Welcome!” she says, “Please don’t fear me.”
Is it curiosity that fascinates and gawks at this aberration?
Is it wise to watch chemistry without wearing goggles?

She is not a gas, liquid, or solid,
No single element or isotope defines her atomic mass;
Her shape is more than cubic, more than realism.

This is not a high school science lab.
She is more than base or acid, more like both combined.
She is a chemical reaction, and a magnetic attraction.

She would laugh at that scientific description,
Those eyes would say, “You’re crazy and still not even close.”
Maybe I just haven’t figured out her style of art, but I’m just guessing.

This is not art history class.
There is no single era, artist, or genre I can reference.
Then again, some of the greatest masters took their time to lovingly refine.

Perhaps she is a great masterpiece in progress,
An oil on easel, or pigment and water, a mess of tile shards.
There’s a maker’s touch, a chemical explosion, paint dripping off the walls.

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