The Meaning of Pink

1.

Pink isn’t an English word. It comes from Dutch, meaning

“half-closed” as in eyes. Pinck oogen (1570s).

I drink pink Himalayan tea at home.

Creamy milk with pistachio petals.

Long motorcycle treks past old

goats, up slopes, a memory.

I raise a pink glass,

to take history

and put it in

a saucepan.

2.

Pink digests easily, flows into the bloodstream and mixes in.

The word pink in English used to be “incarnate”

from the Latin word for “flesh” as in colour

of blush, crimson rushing to the surface.

As it does when we go to run, or walk,

our two-legged gaits that made

us taller than the grasses

of the savannah,

as old forests

receded.

3.

Pink is necessary to our language now. It’s a siren call

that helps us identify ourselves, like how the sky sets

in pink some days, a flickering angelic light,

like cherubs arguing over what to call

our dreams: our own bright ideas

for a world whose baby-pink

rolling sunrise roars out

visions instead of

language that

just evolves.

4.

In my dream, pink snow blows raspberries on the chimney.

I give a pink lipped kiss to a lover without knowing

if it is the last. Her pink fingertips tap out tango

as it plays on the radio. The forests blossom

and samurais play fight under the canopy.

When the harmonica begins, it speaks

of dainty little things, junior roses

and waddling flamingos.

I half open my eyes

to her flesh: rosy

in the still sleep

of night.