Untitled

robin’s egg blue reminds me of peacocks,
of eyes, of Robin, of my mother’s
voice as I tried to choose a dress
for my first prom, of my son,
of my daughter, laughter,
wine glasses gone wild
and filled full with
water, of
paper
squares
folded
into these
tiny ornate
surprising jewel-tone
structures, of first dates, and
last dates, of first dates that are
also last dates, of safety, risk,
of being broken open like birth
breaks open the heart, of breaking like
an egg, like a dry stick, of broken things,
of lost things, of going on living,
of labor, death, of things I love
to remember and am so
afraid I’m forgetting,
of things I want to
forget and am
afraid to
call to
mind,
silence
of the blue
egg now empty,
cheeping of hungry
young birds, of the farmer’s
eggs at market, the scattered
wisps and threads of blue reflections
in certain nebulas, of cirrus
clouds, of fairy dust scattered in midair,
of fairy beads shimmering cheaply
on my wrist, of the glowing teal
stone for which I carved a bone
and cast a puddle of
molten silver like
a spell, of beach glass
broken and then
polished smooth
and soft,
yes,
of lips
and mouths as
soft and cool as
beach glass, of dancing
wild as drag queens under
a summer afternoon sky,
of stained glass windows spilling light
over a casket, a rosary
(of sorrow, of joy), of hallows that are
a whisper of white barely contained
inside a curve, of floating with
flower petals on the air,
the way wind tangles hair
and blows it into
my mouth, the way
violets
beg for
sweet,
the way
columbine
makes fists of blue
bruises and unfurls,
of mornings, of something
so beautiful I only
imagine it touching my hand
hollow over hollow and filled with hope

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