Questions in the Margins: Color Puddles



I’m told there is a color line

in my head.

It’s no surprise, really,

having done most of my growing in one field of wheat.

We were, however, encouraged

to cross the street toward


Truth be known, the backlighting

black, ‘gainst white

highlights the beauty – does it not?

music… work…

the fashion of cloth or phrase

turning my head

toward muddier hues.


At home

where I live

those muddier hues have left

a cloud.

Perhaps I have a color puddle;

Does everyone?


Krista told me

there is a poverty line, too.

I sometimes mistake the two

wrestling in the dark

like Jacob.


Wrestling, with

words like labor

and choice, and… opportunity.

Charity has been struck from my vocabulary

but kindness jaywalks, or at the least,

maps a 2-way shortcut

around the backyard fence.


I never liked them.


What divine kindness, then,

will erase these lines that remain,

without hiding a gene’s grandeur

or penciling a different lie?

My head is hurting with all

the questions.

One could hope

for a small fracture

in the line…