Pink

Pink is Pink; a small tingle. Violet is much better. I felt very very sure; sitting smugly on a bus bench seat in the sticky summer, omw to

Vacation Bible School.

Being curious, I like to ask questions. ESPECIALLY the ones you’re not supposed to ask. I’m six. I say “What’s a harlot?” and watch all their faces grow tight.

I know I’m onto something.

Pink is amber; is rose-gold; is a sunrise. The first blush on a cherry before the birds get it.

Pink is a small bunny; a baby. She’s more yours than yours. She is her very own. Her laughter is a silver tinkling bell that opens up heaven. I brush her hair and offer my protection. Pink is the castle on the original Little Mermaid VHS.

Pink is a portal; here come the boys! 1, 2, 3 Here are the noses and toe beans of so many kittens. The new skin after a sunburn. A blister from Disneyland. Your mom singing pop music in the car. Pink is a triangle you *know* you belong to.

Pink is glowing; is warm soft vital like a tangerine. Like a languid Art Nouveau princess. Like a bathtub that becomes a chapel.

Like a hot tub in San Luis Obispo, or the softest center of prime rib

(press it to see it bleed).

It is a constellation of lovely welts and knowing glances...a naked summer camp. A garden. A conference room. A hotel. Any delightful restaurant. A plane ticket.

Pink is an interruption; an aberration in code. An invitation you didn’t want. Something you’d rather not think about. My friends will notice I’ve gone missing, you say. I only had two drinks.

Pink stops you in your tracks. It ruins your October. The pieces of yourself that you have given away could start an avalanche. Your body calls you forth for another fight, and this time it’s serious.

I lose my hair. I am in mourning; my gender covered in sweat.

I am attended by angels with notecards and old magazines.

I am attended by the Matriarchs, the Benificent Ones.

I find the secret places inside me.

I am turning the page, approaching the altar With a worthy sacrifice.

It’s something pink