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.