Indigo

Indigo gets no respect.

​The forgotten hue that moves

​​​blue between violet:

Light attenuates with depth

so through the ocean

the photons

​​s

l

i

​ d

e

from the crimson clownfish flitting at the surface

to the purple stars in the benthic:

it is a rare creature that dwells

​​​ blue

​​​​ between

​​​​​ violet,

in

indigo.

And much like a rare s t r e t c h

of collapsed time:

​​​an hour of Wednesday morning

or a minute of Sunday twilight

so too will a rare electric mind dwell there,

​​​​​ flanking between the liminal and

the evergreen

of blues and violets

in

indigo,

​​​ not staring back into mirrored

cerulean eyes,

a shade not reflected or brooded

(a shade not like sterile light blue, shining science through hospital corridors, mental patients singing songs in Russian, Italian)

a sadness that takes on a coat of another color

and chooses not to look at itself ​

or the red, orange, yellow, green creatures

that walk around on their two legs

not even contemplating indigo.