CHRIS REPPUCCI

She fills bottles and spent light bulbs with paint. Bold hues, deep vermillions, dark magentas, olive green, royal blue, burnt orange. Like grenades she pitches them at the walls, the chamber dripping with chromatic viscera until all the blankness is smothered. The chemical smell is pleasant, but not enough. She marches out to the shed and splashes solvents into a bucket and inhales the sharp fumes, the acrid old manure livens as it saturates. In a shard of broken mirror