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3 blue poems: blue is the warmest color


1.            blue is the warmest color.
            it is the color of my dreams
            as they unwind, heavy against
            the sunlight of the day
            waiting to beat me into submission.

            sometimes the day is like periwinkle–
            like one of those pastel, soft colors
            on slips of cardstock in home depot.
            the paper is glossy. the color is perfect
            for you to paint the happy walls of your house.

2.            blue is the warmest color
            in this room there’s such warmth
            all over it’s in
            the paper lights strung above the bookcases
            the spines of books like woman hollering creek,
            shadow and evil in fairy tales, the collected poems
            of langston hughes
. the shoes of the woman
            in a photograph i found in a book at work
            the words on my giant copy of where’s waldo?
            the tissue paper around frida kahlo in her nicho crucifix
            nick’s sweater hanging across the chair to dry
            the cardboard box of ‘scene it’ i haven’t even tried to play
            my ventolin inhaler that keeps me alive
            the top of the ozarka water bottle beside the couch
            my second-favorite pen that i don’t know where i found
            the bag of cool ranch doritos that has no place in this house
            the sky of the taj mahal in the frame above the cat tower
            the coffee cup holding my whiskey
            the icon on this screen telling me to publish

3.            blue is the warmest color.
            it is the color of our lovemaking
            in the early labor of the morning.

            it is the feel of his skin across
            my skin, his lips on my brow, the way
            his breath lets out like a ship

            glad to meet the calm waves of sea.
            sometimes we are cerulean, or pacific
            together–we move faster. we splash

            in our sheets and drip enough to fill
            an ocean. we drown the fish.
            they cannot survive the whirlwind

            that is us. when i am one
            i am midnight blue. i retreat
            deepdeepdeep into my mind and

            become like the sky after the sun
            has been gone for hours. somewhere
            there are stars but they are not bright

            enough to see or my eyes are too weak or
            i probably really just made them up–
            i live in a world of make-believe.

This entry was posted in: poetry

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