REM Stage 6: A Poetry Blog || julie niklas

07/03/2011, 6:30 PM
Filed under: Poetry | Tags: , , , , ,

The sky is still blue                          (barely)
like the space
between the paint and the road,
which I have always imagined
ethereal and directional—
circuited like the veins in my father’s arms
and the immense pressure of blood
I could always hear but not touch
and only imagine was there
as I leaned my head
against the banister-gap of his elbow
(fathers are staircases with endless rails)
taking the warmth of his maple skin
as proof of his life.

In the sunset his forehead
shines coppery pink
and the sky is still blue                          (but burning, and only
rumored blue)
like the bottom of a flame engulfing
molten silver, and everything
above the sun
is streaked lettuce green.
He is no longer crisp enough
to wear pleated pants,
or tuck his shirt in around the house,

but he is still the color of daylight
in his eyes,
which I know means
I am his daughter
since mine are hazel and swamp
and that is how landscapes came to be.

The sky is grayest indigo                          (and only around the halos
of the stars)
which is the color of I love you.
Tall at night like a citronella candle,
I can lean my head on his shoulder,
which is soft.

Pale, scintillating moonstone.


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