Color of the sun unhooking, sinking into and under the river
while there’s white sperm between my fingers again.
Color of heavy water when it moves, the way luster
lets you know it’s alive. Runner, a daughter in the way
of the wind during the dewy time of day. Color
congealed— fat off bacon in a jar, waiting
for special occasions. Wonder of an empty page.
Color of honesty. Color of divorce papers in the feeder
of the attorney’s printer before the black text and gold seal.
Summer, or a foggy memory of someone’s face you met
when you were younger. Fur of a newborn tiger
before the black stripes fill completely in. Color
of the mother’s busy knuckles as she scrubs stains
from her daughter’s underwear, or color of unlucky lighters,
if you’re asking my friend Timmy. The living we discover
we took for granted—the inside of the apple before
it colored. Delinquent piñon smoke that hovers
for a block or so as you walk the dog around the neighborhood.
Color of a great waste of sky, everything that suffers to be more
than just potential. Wrapping paper. An erect collar
on a scholar or painters pants, the sclera of the sales support
woman rolling her eyes. The sun dragging the moon like
an echo, another delinquent, nobody’s darling, but no less
wasteful because it can’t be kept. Good teeth. The color
of feeling smaller when your GPS shows you stranded
in a field, or a parking lot, or a tarmac. The soft of popcorn,
not the bite. A baseball moving so quickly you don’t see
laces. Useless without collaboration. The black sky
after it pins light into its hair, before color overtakes
color, creating a blind spot, like an idea taking
hold of you, or the suffering the pool goes through
to stay still.
Orginally Published by: The Cincinnati Review