If this is blue
then you
are dead
and I am three years
older then you'll
ever be,
writing a poem
on the eve of
symphony. If
this is blue
then you
are a ghost
floating like
water
all around me -
blue-brunette broken,
we
little girls
taught to hold our backs
taut, let our limbs
not shift uncomfortable
into our sister-shells.
Let the blue not be real.
Let brother not be
wraith-like, and men
no longer snake-like.
Little girls no longer made like
us, in those hollow blue moon
mega rooms. - College -
I'm still just a kid tripping
under my woman-limbs, listening,
listening - the blue backlash of
breath - your last. The blue ocean,
blue tears. Blue - if this is
shameless then I am shameful,
but the body that writes this poem
is three years older then you.