By Evette Davis
I couldn’t leave because your voice felt like my old home,
The home on the block with the walls that caved.
The ’06 basement flood, a following kitchen fire.
We long since left the old house, I forgot it, but when I met you
you uprooted everything I never wanted.
Picked a strand of memory that suffocated my throat in blue.
I never told you about my old home,
Mottled walls, martyr dreams.
Though you remind me a lot of it,
You remind me that
Blue wasn’t the color for me.
I remember a midwinter’s breeze
that grabbed at my spine
back when winter played with the marbury bush.
It nipped at me like your blue hands did, and I promise
you broke me down just like that old house,
with its hypothermic hands, hearts, tears and all.
When I left, Infected walls collapsed like a hurricane and they bled seasons of blue, a deep blue, of winter.
A spilled inkwell lies on a table, and all I see is blue.
All you see is blue.
All there is is blue.