My child is not blue, she's an apricot
ripening in fits. Blue would be the
bonnet on her head, some say it's light,
God, or water, but I see worn cotton
we picked beneath southern heat, the day
spirals rose up to the sky and my baby said
I see air.
What she meant was hot summer air
that could fill a balloon full,
but they still took her away
so she could tell them angels
really did sprout wings,
fathers and mothers forgave, and
mercy was the name of the game.
Once, she did tell me she saw something.
Should she use her words, she asked?
I held her pink hands, her eyes were big blue
oceans and seas.
Ah, Christ, baby, write it in the dust.
After she was gone I went to find the truth
but a cold wind had spiraled in from the north.
Whatever she had written was still a mystery.