Rainbow

I saw an eye on the wall,

an iris turning.

I caught it in my hand;

it rippled like flame.

I held it as it spilled,

trying to find the line—

I pressed my eye against the door

and looked into the sun.

The face of the sun is white,

but the eye within my hand

held the colors of its sight.

The face is white, which is to say

Blood lurks beneath it, and veins

Green as snakes, and the final bone.

The skin is white, the whites of the eyes,

The singing of bone, the soft sweet snap

of cartilage, slick enamel, pearl lunulae,

white matter, white matters...

And nothing else is.

But we call it white.

If we cut it open it would be a rainbow.

For we name colors to keep them apart.

For white is not the color of purity,

Holding as it does

All its children within its belly—

Only black is clean,

There’s nothing there.

Even our flag is stitched of seven pieces,

Though there, in the sky,

There is no scar, no dividing line,

and no hand can trace the border

where hue melts into hue.