Everyday around the world a woman is pulled into blue
After Kara Walker’s “Blue,” 2020
Everyday some brown
woman pools into inky blue,
a madness that crawls up
from the floor of her and flows
out all around. I should
know, for months swallowed
in the bruise of myself
reaching to hold my hand.
The sun continues to brush
orange light intermittently
everywhere despite the intimate
annihilations, this weeping sea.
There are mornings I wake
and wonder, why? Later, wandering
the walkways, in search
of something to fill the hole
in me, I see a fairy princess
floating by, her mother cross-legged
with a cardboard sign saying,
Help me feed my children.
It reminds me. The earth is still
spinning on its ancient axis,
the magpies caw and congregate
in the tree outside my screen door.
The bees, frantic and worrisome,
continue to drone around my ears,
light on my fingers, their tiny bodies
dusted with dying goldenrod,
them, and the stiff plastic wings
of five-year-old fairies call me
from the sirens of my own blue loop.
Notes:
This poem is part of the portfolio “Kara Walker: Back of Hand.” View all artwork from the portfolio, including the one this poem is after, or read the rest of the portfolio in the April 2024 issue.
Source:
Poetry
(April 2024)
