The color
pink speaks out

of turn, interrupts red

with a white streak
of thought

grenades. It rains.
Lightning decorates

the lilac sky. Waiting
for a serious dose

of thunder—there is
no blue.



Expectations for the long arm
of light to cradle her—better
yet jolt her—into a wider frame

can only lead to one thing:
that after tonight everything begins

to shrink. Or, there’s another one: relief
that summer is poised to stretch across
the best spills and spans.


This color collision—red
splayed onto green—isn’t
on purpose. She would not presume
to celebrate what cannot be

celebrated by someone
whose beliefs lie
inside another palette,
reveal themselves without complementary

aids. It happens—pigments
go where they must, or
where they might. It is that
she chooses this pariah

life—this bundle of exploded light
debris—which spells out memories
left unretrieved. It is this

to be true.