Linda Thomas

Upright against the sofa edge

she stood the crayons, Blue and Red

together as parents always are, primary

and permanent as dye, a Purple mingle.

Over a game of cards, their friends,

Green and Lemon Yellow, argue

as adults do, he a bluster of stalks

and cycadas, she near

weeping for home, Sicily,

where winter drum wheat

turns spaghetti yellow as yearning.

All is color.

All is theater, the stage

where Rose Pink stains her cheek,

becomes her, names the girl

who sets the crayons upright

and waits for Turquoise, the boy

next-door, to pedal his bicycle

past their house, toss the news

in Black and White against

their front door screen, ask

for her hand so they might grow

Orchids in the schoolyard,

Plums in the alley, a bridal bouquet

of Thistle.

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