In a blue room, one morning.

Blue is the right shade for the corners
for future boyhood, uninhabited by feet
or any trotting of  milky skin
blue is my forgotten boyhood and the void

blue is enough for the cushions,
it drapes well the sides and centerpieces of this room
I picked the shades to cover what I didn't want to touch
the photo-frames, all lined against the shelves
the pads where he'd rest a head

In the room, the women flow
whispering warm water giggling at their throats,
in whisper, I louder moan in fear
of celebrations. The finer my cries
the longer they whisper, as if only angels
hear when two women speak
unknowing to them that the sick too
have ears

clammed, clasped I rest my head by the wall-
it's left untouched, this body,
a land that's loveless to the knowledge
of other bodies the size of stone,
carrying meteors in their eyes
this body is immune to jealousy but not pain

here is another blue morning, dissociated from days
in his blue, my shaded room
the women flow, greeting with lilac the walls
the hands shaking, the eyes trembling to my frizzy hair
their tongues roll like cigarettes discarded for stronger pipes
I know I am right- blue is the right shades for the corners,
 the right size for his round, perfect head
like a paper sheet under weights I stand blue with ink and a small head,
pulling and tugging
must I feel this soreness in my joints?