Green Dusk

How far would we have to fall straight up

before we wouldn’t be able to see green?

Green’s a gorgeous color. Different shades

in spring leaves, falling over one another

in the wind like nature wringing her hands,

grass bursting from the ground filled with

water and light. The final jade flash that

sailors say appears over the horizon at sunset.

The eyes of your former friend’s mother,

the first green eyes you’d seen. You remember

how she blinked and you wonder if that’s weird

or not. When Sawyer gave you the American Idiot

CD for your tenth birthday, his shirt was green. The

oxidizing pennies on top of the old radio that wore

the CD to scratches. Algae on Willamette River rocks

reflects the sun through the water like road lights

for the sidewalk. The emerald undertones of the

Great Salt Flats under the Utah sunset, the quick snap

of pictures being taken next to you, your friend’s shadow

slipping into the cracks in the earth. The deep

forest green of your high school’s uniform, offset with

light blue and white. Christmas trees lined up along

the chain link fence, driving home with one lashed

to the roof of your green Subaru Outback. Your mother

draping that tree in lights. They used to call

cowards green. Envy’s green. The house I grew up in

wasn’t always green. For most of its life, the house

was white with blue shutters, but now it’s green with

maroon trim around the windows. I’ve lived here

after I was adopted by my parents, white. My birth mother

is also white. My birth father is Black. The only great

legend about Sir Gawain is about him dueling

the Green Knight, and the lessons he learns when

he faces the [redacted information as there’s an A24 movie

of this story coming out in a few months]. In most

stories, the enemies are brown and the heroes

aren’t. I wonder what it must be like if those were

the only brown people you ever saw. Growing up

in Portland, you quickly learn what it means to be

brown. The city’s green, though, as if the settlers

lost when they fought to build in the wild. You had

to fight for who you are now against who you thought

you would be. How your ancestors came to America.

Who named you and why. Which birth parent gave you

the pollen allergies that require the drug with the green

cap so you can sleep at night. The green jacket your

roommate wore when you went to the movies together

before the world shut down. How the box that said

“you’re not going to Australia'' and the message you

sent to your birth father were both green. The vegetables

growing in your neighbor’s garden are green and their

stems curl over each other like rope thrown on the deck

of a ship. You hear laughter outside the back door,

from their yard where they’re hosting dinner for

all the vaccinated families with children the same age

as theirs and you smile because there weren’t children

around here when you were young and you’re glad

that they have each other. Peace is green. Most people think

it’s white but it’s green. Take my word for it. Green.