if i told you the truth, i would tell you...
she comes to me in wafts of pynk.
in a janelle monáe song. in a decorative rose bush outside the home of a suspicious neighbor.
i have hated this pynk. behind or between the part in my bush. spent many days resenting it’s varying shades and scents and tastes. it chameleons into blood red at the moon’s whim.
my mother, my grandmother and all our mothers...
i am entangled in umbilical cord like pynk yarn that
s t r e t c h e s
beyond the beginnings of my fabric.
my lungs are pynk + black. they are out of breath. i must stop running and bask in the iridescence of this pynkuliar moon•
if i told you the truth i would tell you, i see her in the sunset sometimes. that soft pynk... does it matter to the ocean it dissolves in? or the blushing sun that it formed from?
perhaps a hard pynk... a crisp horizon where the earth splits open to greet you. where the river finds its source.
pynk above, pynk below, pynk between and pynk inside.