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.
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.
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