By Noah Diaz, Opinion Editor
You stood from bed
and autumn moonlight
slipped from your waist and
bundled Prussian Blue
at your ankles.
I smooth the creased linens
where you had lain and I think
this is how you love someone:
you let them go shower.
I never seem to bathe in front of you.
You always lean over me,
knead the meatiest parts of your palm
into the small of my back and
I breathe you in
and you lean harder, more persistent,
and you say
you and me, girl: two rolling
Indigo Blue thunderclouds;
one not without the other.
And I always think how much
shampoo must go to waste and why
do we keep buying it then if you
won’t let me undress and touch myself
in front of you and
why do you always shower with the
curtain drawn so tight
and do you remember that time
our first son was born Robin Egg Blue
and how he didn’t last much longer
after those few minutes you held him and
how it all seemed to be my fault really
and how you said
I hate you because you
killed a baby inside its own home.
I never thought that was fair.
But then I think about how you tucked
yourself between the Cobalt ridges and fields
behind the barn and how I forgave you because
you probably wouldn’t have been a great
and I hear you shower.
I tell you a story you can’t hear
over the roar of the water.
It’s about a boy, born baby blue,
and about how you held him
to your neck and whispered
all the things he would learn to know:
barn, tree, window, house
learning how to live with Blue
letting Blue go sometimes
knowing when to let it stay