In a particular way

I could split like sunlight to show you my
colours, but would that be too cliched for
you? Even the violet of new bruises still
too tender to touch? Even the indigo-blue

of ink stains from the written, unwritten? So
what if the writing and the reading were in
different languages? The green of things I
wanted but could not have? This of all things

you know well. But green has the audacity to
dry, given time, to fall and rot in the cold. And
yellow, its every shade, every fear, eating slowly
into everything else. There were tangerine

evenings, staining skies, foretelling the dark, the
dark that was to come, that always came.
See my unanswered questions burn into this
molten red? Helpless anger is fevered blood,

difficult to live with, difficult to die from. But
even in the silent wet, don’t you have to be
there, looking up at the sky, at a particular
time, in a particular way, to spot a rainbow?


I happened to see Paul Jenkins’ splendid painting “Rainbow Bleed” after I wrote the poem… and really felt it spoke to me. We need to find the colours we are made up of.