color

came to me suddenly

not blood, but red, reddish

and burning. Only

at first abrupt,

like a punch line, a

jawbone or

hallway carved

round,

a rib cage

to hold my breath

the red

staining,

marking a

detour, around

feeling

around terror, a quick sidestep.

It startled me. How

easy it is to turn,

away. I layer

the colors, fold their

sharp acoustics

and breathe, bend,

a hand across both eyes

retinas shielded

from the red,

red sun

in my chest

rests a

hard hollow ache for

the full

bleed soak of

ochre ink I

can almost taste

the seep

now blue each

vein a cracked

arc through

midnight’s dark

glow of indigo a

glint against

each turmeric

bloom

another

world in

other words

time’s

aperture

opening wide to

stars and

moons

yellow

bursting, and blue

She said they came out of nowhere traveling too fast east on Washington Wednesday morning before we’d eaten our eggs or buttoned up against the facts and numbers, unaware of the statistically known, the seven per day. I cracked the shells and the yellow yolks tumbled out like soft exclamations as I picked up the phone, heard her crying and remembered how easy it is to lose, not to be lost, not to forget where you are or where you’re going, but just like that to find the yolk punctured and running all over the pan.