Originally published as a finalist in Atlanta Review’s 2020 International Poetry Contest Issue
–
I am in debt to Maggie Nelson
for teaching me about satin bowerbirds,
the blue birds that collect blue things to mate.
Nests like museums, each artifact
is carefully placed to stimulate the female
enough for the couple to have sex
for two to three seconds, after which,
they will never meet again.
In the wild, this is true love:
how a bird, how a human can love
such a thing, a color. I try to love
like that. I am not a princess of blue,
but try to be. Blue nails, navy sweater,
I eat nothing but the moons
from Lucky Charms for three days
to see what she sees.
But each quick chomp, chew
and swallow doesn’t make me feel
what she feels. It’s a crime
I’ve never heard Joni Mitchell’s Blue,
so I never tell people.
That’s like going your whole life
without ever hearing some white guy
with a guitar wailing Wonderwall.
I’d rather listen to Blue Christmas
in February, sit in my azure socks
and bra against my walls reflecting
fishbowl blue for hours until
I feel my insides coloring,
each organ and muscle flushing indigo
right before I realize just how
much red I lack in my life.
–