Discovering Colors in Prison
       

Do they ever discover new colors? he asks.
What would we name them? Bruised morning
sky seen through a slit too small to be called a window.
The boiled afterglow of sun hazed over by ash.
The dried crust of yard that grows only dust
and dead weeds, used surgical gloves
scattered like so many discarded hands.
The iridescent scream of a sharp-shinned hawk
circling somewhere in the pastel wash
of afternoon air. The warm feel of fresh light.
The cold, tensile sheen that buzzes
off the electrified fence, the tinge of barbs
in barbed wire. The shadow of dried blood
inside the lines of chalk. Taser jolts.
The burnt colors of fear—more smell than color,
vaporous and acrid. The things that want
to become colors and can't—
the voice of someone who doesn't visit,
photos of loved ones so worn the faces are barely there.
The colors we keep caged, a stubborn brightness
refracted off betrayal, and hate.
Or heartache—the darkening hurt
that feels like all the colors crushed
into the one you see shimmering
when you close your eyes.

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Copyright © 2018 Nancy Miller Gomez All rights reserved
from Punishment
Rattle
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission