I don’t know what to do with this shade of blue. It’s sticky. It leeches to my fingers and now the cherries taste funny and I cannot eat them. Instead I eat this blue by the spoonful. It feels like cotton, like wool on my tongue and tastes like iron and honeysuckle: pain. My pain. Yours. It doesn’t fill my stomach but my chest. When I speak, a blue vapor escapes my lips and people look at me funny, as if they know. It is the blue of howl, dusk, a faucet dripping when you are too tired to turn it off. Concrete floors. Clouds. Collars. Creek. Echo. Funk. Somewhere, somewhere between a swell of ocean and the blue of lips. The seam of a uniform. Fading delphinium. Almost but not quite Parker’s bluebird, wavering along a minor chord. If I listen long enough it dissolves into a pale, pale grey, and thins, like a purse of lips, into grey lines that cage themselves around me. And I have only myself to blame.
Melissa I. Hassard
Recently accepted and published at vox poetica. Thank you so very much, to Annmarie Lockhart of vox poetica.
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