The Skeleton in the Closet
She wears today Not the violet of the myriad flowers that colour meadows Nor the indigo of eclectic dyes, the ilk of colonial conquests Nor the blue that reflects from the ocean, vestiges of light that cannot be absorbed. She wears today Not the green of algae that grows on decaying, stagnant water Nor the yellow of the pus that pulsates in a purulent wound Nor the orange of the astringent antiseptic that flows through hospitals Nor the red of the fresh warm blood that oozes from a raw laceration. She wears today The white of the brittle skeleton Formed bit by bit from ossified deposits of memory Stubborn bones that shape her flesh. She wears today The skeleton that hides in her closet.