.................................
colors
.................................

it was green
but there was nothing
verdant about it
nothing cooling
in its prism.
it was hot
and should have been red;
should have screamed carmine.

I watched it color her
like a child,
always outside the lines,
always smudging her hands
as she clawed at the paper,
stained her nails.

what was red, so red within
beat green and mean,
hatched from hesitance,
an eye ever watchful
on the nest.

yet so many found her kind
and good,
lauded her better moments,
did not see the acid
underneath

as she etched at herself,
alone,
hoping to bring into relief
that which imprinted early.
hoping to find
in a blazing fall,
that one bush
which would not burn.

.................................
Jennifer Ley
.................................

 
Copyright © Jennifer Ley
April 1998

                                                                                    ...a poem in this room by Mark Stone...
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