In a blue ocean

Updated: Jan 7

her periwinkle knees

are pleated in a nightgown.

She does not raise her voice

but feeds me blackberries

and teaches me the Rosary—

“beads are iridescent,

when the sun rises with the plane,

clouds like cornflower.”

Her voice reminds me

of the glossy hill in Reykjavík,

ice that wraps the trees

to prepare for sleep.

Her touch reminds me of the wool I wore

in Nice along the riviera,

the salt rolling in

to slap my cheeks.

When I was naked and dancing,

she would place her palm across her brow.

Her eyes, bashful and blue,

would turn towards me something immortal,

“tuck me in.”

I see the alter of her ashes,

a box of ivory, like scales,

where the lilies tilt, indigo blue

and the teacup I sculpted,

rests boldly.

Blue does not prevail

in a blue ocean. But today,

what would she think of my red face?

Would she judge my yellow teeth,

my purple veins?

Would she beg me to cover up?

I am praying by the beads

she taught,

but I am not a bashful woman.

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