By May Swenson
Blue, but you are Rose, too,
and buttermilk, but with blood
dots showing through.
A little salty your white
nape boy-wide. Glinting hairs
shoot back of your ears' Rose
that tongues like to feel
the maze of, slip into the funnel,
tell a thunder-whisper to.
When I kiss, your eyes' straight
lashes down crisp go like doll's
blond straws. Glazed iris Roses,
your lids unclose to Blue-ringed
targets, their dark sheen-spokes
almost green. I sink in Blue-
black Rose-heart holes until you
blink. Pink lips, the serrate
folds taste smooth, and Rosehip-
round, the center bud I suck.
I milknip your two Blue-skeined
blown Rose beauties, too, to sniff
their berries' blood, up stiff
pink tips. You're white in
patches, only mostly Rose,
buckskin and saltly, speckled
like a sky. I love your spots,
your white neck, Rose, your hair's
wild straw splash, silk spools
for your ears. But where white
spouts out, spills on your brow
to clear eyepools, wheel shafts
of light, Rose, you are Blue.
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My Monday was a Monday -- laundry, chores, article, quick trip to A.C. Moore to look for three things they didn't have in stock and two they did plus gratuitous gorgeous turquoise glitter glue that I now need to figure out what to do with, Cresselia raid with four other people. It rained most of the day, so I never walked in the park, sadly.
We caught up on two weeks of The 100, which is like "Return to Tomorrow" meets Get Out this season, followed by the season finale of Gentleman Jack, which has been fabulous all season though Ann Walker's mental health turnaround isn't entirely convincing. A few more photos from the Virginia Renaissance Faire yesterday since I love faire season:
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