Nothing was yellow
then, not the ground or the trees.
Certainly not the
sky. Maybe the Columbia
River, but who is to say.
Last night I woke, my
unpainted nails throbbing
from a manicure
removed; I painted them at 1 a.m.
Sealed pain with mustard yellow.
Back then, when I loved
you, everything was blood red rain.
It didn’t matter
if the sun was shining, you
were tourniquet and noose.
I don’t think I saw
the color yellow for four
dark years. There were greens,
sure, backdrop of growth to our
decay. I thought you were light.
Thought you were the sun:
jagged tooth, burning, rancid
egg on the black tar.
Now I buy sunny-side up
colored paint cans, hide them away.
I dream of painted
yellow doors. When memory
comes ablaze, cloudless
I see, it was me, a light
monster, hunger fluorescent.
Grotesque in what I
denied in me, thirsted for
in you. And when I
peel back red: canary, gold,
butter, lemon, bumblebee.
Love is a decade
past, gone and over, but here
you are still honey,
on burnt toast, your face a shock
when I flipped script, deceiving.
Your face, haloed by
Oregon sunlight the day
when you followed us,
your legs pumping bicycle pedals,
your friend, shotgun in my car.
Me, yearning monster
devouring your sepia
glow, all your misdeeds
turned back on you. Me: karma,
blond, goldenrod, vengeful storm.