Maria's blue. That's not a metaphor --
She's off chromatically. She pondered shades,
Then slapped on paint from head to toe before
Ensuring that it would wash off. It fades
A bit each day; she may be on her way
To turquoise, like southwestern rings,
Familiar Indian junk from Sante Fe
Or old Mesilla, pretty little things
They mass-produce for tourists. Why'd you do
It, everybody asks, expecting an
Epiphany on color. It's the hue
I had, Maria says; I didn't plan
On permanence. And now it's normal -- you
See blue each day, and quite forget you're blue.
1 comment:
The last of the airplane sonnets, written on the last leg of the journey home. This is based on a true story. I wasn't sure where it would go -- I half-expected to follow it to where I posit Maria's viewers went, some sort of statement on the color of a person, but instead it just went to the normalness of whatever you are. I guess that's not nothing!
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