she is indigo of first light. violet of dusk. the dusty pink petals that fall from the rose bouquets quarantined to tap-watered mason jars. she is the ink of the new moon’s skies. she is the scarlet lining of the heart’s walls. she is not simply orange. she is blood orange. she is not simply tangerine. she is the pale peach juice of a nectarine as it dribbles down your chin.
she is a she. yes. she is all soft skin, valley, and curve. she births poems the way she births life—with crimson-wet thighs and a battle cry echoing in her throat. she can be a soft thing, a feather thing, a peony petal silk thing. as easily as she can be a tough thing, an elephant-skinned thing, a gnawing tooth thing, a pierces-and-guts thing. she can be the pulsing graze of a lover’s hand. she can twist like a fist with a knife. she can be a subtle June breeze that sends wildflowers stirring. as easily as she can be a hurricane. as easily as she can burn the trees in October. as easily as she can be the slow, quiet fall of December’s first snow.
she is ocean’s salt. coyote’s song. ancient Greece’s Circe. desert’s scorched red tongue. she is not simply sun. she is late afternoon’s slanted rays. she is not simply dirt. she is a sustainer of roots and protector of bones. she is not simply rain. she is a downpour. a single globular dewdrop on a dawn-coated grass blade. she is not simply moon. no. she is sea commander. womb puller. shapeshifter. howl arouser. strawberry, gold, white-hot light giver.
she is a yellowing love letter. tattered at the edges. a puff-of-dust remnant of a lover past. she is a faded blue flower, singly picked and pressed into a musty copy of Jane Eyre. still, intact years after the hands that plucked it has left. she is the reel of memory refusing to be cut. the burrowed photograph refusing to be tossed. the twinge in the heart that just won’t unknot. she is the gold lacquer trying to turn broken into art.
she is you and i. deadly nightshade toxic. blood-hungry wild.
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