A Poem About Unspoken Things

The color of my heart is ochre,

sun-baked,

turned soft with living and

the business of love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My thoughts are the hue of spring ferns,

tendrils of hope

that put down roots into the creek-banks

and unfurl with all the verdancy of rebirth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This voice of mine is tuscan yellow -

the heritage of olive groves and

lemon-trees

still singing in my blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are desires within me

that existed before -

subtle, ripe-purple,

secret as grapevines

veiling their fruit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My aunts and grandmothers felt this,

this yearning in shades of berry and wine;

they thought of it when they kissed lovers

while their husbands were away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I read the tint of wild strawberries

in the letters they left behind,

pink like not-quite-love,

gentle like things not allowed to be said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clear is a color,

thin like hammered glass -

that is the cast of time and

the lens of inherited eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We think that stories are stark black,

sharp as lines of ink;

but here, in our world,

in my world,

they are borne in shades of shadow,

of thunderheads,

quiet secrets shared by women who know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

People say my stories are bright like

citrus or stars -

they do not see the subtle chestnut earth

packed tight like whispers between my words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Look at me:

my skin is chiffon-white,

the hue of wedding gowns that belie

true desire,

the yearning of violets and blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ask me of husbands -

my lost mothers will speak

of wanting,

of scarlet dreams;

they will talk of things they did not say

to anyone besides themselves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

These legacies are mine,

uncoiling in shades of languid blue;

they are turquoise like seawater,

like Sicily,

like the silvered shoals we left behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My first lover had eyes like junipers,

hungry as her caress -

I touched her with the emerald boldness

of generations no longer suppressed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grey is the color of man’s laws,

bled out,

and petrified like stone;

but mine are the laws that lovers know,

and these flow in hues of red.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shame has the tint of bone-powder,

but it is not a pigment I know -

shame is a stranger’s stain,

a painting over of what is real.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I choose instead to live in indigo,

in copper, in scarlet and green -

my truths are the color of sunlight,

bright and subtle all at once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cut my kisses crosswise,

and you’ll find bands of amber, gold, and white;

polished bright, they shine like agate,

joyful, laughing,

and right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so, you see, I am more -

more than one,

more than named,

more than me;

not just painted, but dyed deep,

with all the colors that have been set free.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mine is the cascade of bloodlines,

of almost-secrets turned bold,

turned ecstatic,

turned grateful through the tumult of centuries -

every moment is now a gemstone,

and the facets are women like me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere deep in the soils of our homeland,

I think they are smiling soft like ochre

for who I’ve become -

I think my mothers are laughing, shining,

in every color under the sun.