Fuchsia
the weather man pointed to it
before the big storm hit, the color
of the highlighter on the medical scan,
mama’s face when she spoke
to the mailman, splotches
on pale skin when daddy
came home again,
the Easter dress from ‘92
that didn’t quite fit you,
what pain looks like
but only to those
who allow themselves to feel it,
the Christmas bike, bought used
so no one would steal it,
the wildflowers in the May crown
upon the Virgin statue’s head,
the color of the first blooms
reserved for the dead,
the peek up the skirt,
the neon sign of that club
called Flirt,
the specks in the dirt
the night of the accident,
the scarred flesh of torment,
the flush of faces,
embarrassment,
the eyelids of your sister
the night the neighbor boy
kissed her,
the lipstick shade
on the wine glass in the sink,
the swirl of a summer drink,
the way the sky looked
at twilight
after the rains dried,
the bruises from the wreckage,
the stain on the carpet, the messes,
desire, anger, rage, heat,
the faintest beat,
the painted heart in the alleyway,
the beads grandma used to pray,
the ugly bridesmaids’ dresses,
the glow in the room
from the lava lamp,
the surgical clamp,
the flashing light,
the flatline,
the fireworks
that night,
the last speck
of sight,
the flicker of life
May 9, 2019
Thistle Thoughts 