Heather Sweeney
One Color
Building parts of the first color—blue.
Will run out. Run out of reasons for this.
The stolen gravity of leaves. Only seeds fall.This is a performance of certainty.
The sorry traitor and the prince. Braiding each other.
This is their scissored reflection in the window where.
A bird in dark circles I want. A storm crossing over.
That angle I want to touch.Inside I heard a woman working in the coffee shop say
“We’re all out of borders.”
And she seemed ok with it. Watching limbs, a fence.
Her boys hanging there. Hanging all her fear on them.
Concealing, full-time.Shelf life. She goes into the basement and sews.
Ragged dogs outside whooping it up.
Instead of singing. Almost falling the whole day.
Nothing to do without it.He won’t talk to her like this. This or that.
The boys and their thumbtacks in the carpet.
3 A.M., an unnamed color. The color of his throat.Save one color, steal anything.
Because she is gone don’t move. He dropped to the place
where her ankles used to be. The boys ate wings.
Then fought over a bowl of rain.
