Friday, April 6, 2018


In honor of National Poetry Month, I am posting work by myself each Friday; here is "Blue," a recent piece from a series of color poems.


It was there when I had the Hong Kong flu.
I was three, my head shaved, IV and tubes
attached to the blue veins pulsing in my skull,
the only veins large enough to take the needles.
My parents cried when they saw me like that.

It was there when my father walked
through the damp, blue twilight to the shed
behind the house. It walked with him,
it sat next to him, steadied the rifle for him,
comforted him.

In a different hospital, years away, my mother in bed,
lying motionless under layers of blankets, the television’s
sub-oceanic flicker the only light. In the hush
it was there in the corner, behind a worn vinyl chair,
watching her, watching me.

And now, here I am, on stage, bathed in blue light,
I’m in the center ring, you can’t miss me,
and I say to it, if you think you’re ready, I’m right here,
come and find me,
I’m waiting for you.


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