Maybe Courage is Blue

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Abstract

shadow - or like beige-powdered freckles - Break through the loose casing.And when I only see parallel-lined bruises, And chaotic black scratches, looping and dotting through, I stick highlighter Post-its to each slip’s edge.This way you can see it — you can’t untie it in a few swift motions, like you would shoestring once you realize your kitten is now a tomcat.Or like lemon-verbena-scented Hand sanitizer, looped around the hutch’s door by its tag-along rubber chain, when it’s grasped by hands too impatient to have washed themselves first.Part IICan you see the fingers, hesitantly pulling apart — not in caution, but in resistance, as if webbed between?The minute movements are a Fra

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med memorial in the back-right Quadrant of my brain, the part that’s yellow under the neurologist’s X-ray, where a spill indicates a leak — A puddle bordered by photos of Moments no one wants to kick-stand or give wheels to, so they can be taken like victims on a perverted Carousal.Because the ride around the spit-filmed swamp has a narrow horizon that lessens to less and Less until your plastic beast is no longer Circling, but sinking. And covered in yellow slime.Why did you wear yellow today? Why did you chase yellow? I won’t admonish your courage, because it’s yellow, too. But you know you can’t have yellow. You always will, as you always have, Paint your room in shades of blue.~A poem by Chloe Paulina Hawes</article></body>

A poem about trauma taken in stride and cognitive OCD

Part I

I keep choosing yellow — picking standard manila folders, noting the overtone, filling them with torn notes from legal pads. Thinking the ink might, like an inverse shadow - or like beige-powdered freckles - Break through the loose casing.

And when I only see parallel-lined bruises, And chaotic black scratches, looping and dotting through, I stick highlighter Post-its to each slip’s edge.

This way you can see it — you can’t untie it in a few swift motions, like you would shoestring once you realize your kitten is now a tomcat.

Or like lemon-verbena-scented Hand sanitizer, looped around the hutch’s door by its tag-along rubber chain, when it’s grasped by hands too impatient to have washed themselves first.

Part II

Can you see the fingers, hesitantly pulling apart — not in caution, but in resistance, as if webbed between?

The minute movements are a Framed memorial in the back-right Quadrant of my brain, the part that’s yellow under the neurologist’s X-ray, where a spill indicates a leak — A puddle bordered by photos of Moments no one wants to kick-stand or give wheels to, so they can be taken like victims on a perverted Carousal.

Because the ride around the spit-filmed swamp has a narrow horizon that lessens to less and Less until your plastic beast is no longer Circling, but sinking. And covered in yellow slime.

Why did you wear yellow today? Why did you chase yellow? I won’t admonish your courage, because it’s yellow, too. But you know you can’t have yellow. You always will, as you always have, Paint your room in shades of blue.

~A poem by Chloe Paulina Hawes