How I Write Today

Even now,

I cannot write in blue ink

and list out my thankfuls,

(when I remember to not forget),

in aqua gel pen

(pilot G-2 07).

“‘Cause girl you know blue is the best damn color there is! Well, obviously, bein’ my favorite!”

And oh, look! Blue skies — clouds tossing, sun crinkling my eyes

as we drive,

Mama and me.

Windows down, country a.m. radio. Hills rolling on, spreading wide before Mama,

like that damn red velvet carpet Lord knows she deserved,

and never got.

From that time until now,

as far back, as deep as my mind can reach,

my favorite color’s been red.

(Don’t you tell on me! You won’t will ya?

Oh, but she’ll be madder’n a hornet!)

Even as I hunkered quiet,

huddled in my closet corner,

breathing shallow.

Hems just brushing the front of my face,

scarred knees touching (your god damn daddy’s) pointy chin.

Damp breath circles

leaving warm, oval clouds

upon raw skin.

Knowing — though yeah they look such a fine, delicate blue —

deep down those veins of mine ran red.

Redder even than the scratches streaking my arms,

than the wide palm print upon my face,

the tender welts on my backside.

Veins red as a sharp, crisp radish. (Hold ’em by their root, daddy said, dip ’em in salt.)

Red as thick-sliced tomatoes, glinting salt and black pepper-sprinkled,

fanned out fancy, puddlin’ on their saucer.

Red as the opaque, splayed blood speck

daring to mar Mama’s fine, hand-shone kitchen window,

every damn time she smashed one of them sum-bitchin’ flies.

One swipe! Smashed that bastard flatter than your daddy’s head.

And brushed aside the carcass with the tip of her shoe.