Fragments of Color

Fragments of Color

Brown body, not the whole covering

of my skin, but bits and pieces.

All the simple parts of me:

My hair, my irises, the tips of my

breasts. If you kissed me,

you’d taste the mud-

stained water, fertile soil that seeps deep

in the Earth after rain's gone.

If you ripped my chest apart, you’d find

a nutshell for a heart, easy to mangle.

I don’t want to be this raw, this

primitive. Chocolate, coffee, shit,

fur, coffins, tree bark, wood,

Earth. Everything alive then dead.

With these known associations, I could not

appreciate the hue until I

was reflected in your eyes,

until you brushed my hair

with your fingertips. Yesterday,

we walked down the street.

Our hands, intertwined, browns

blossoming in the sun.

/“N-----!” a voice shouting

from inside a car, passing by/

I clasped

your hand tighter:

you are pink

under your nails, a blotchy purple

bruise on your wrist, ivory

stretch marks, a single grey

hair embedded on your head, brown

crushed rose-petal lips.

I’ve taken you apart into fragments,

trying to piece you back together,

but I still can’t grasp your color.

There are far too many.

Like light or water you

slip right through my fingers.