Make up your mind, woman. Indigo
silk dress, or syringed star scars. You
get to decide both color (blue rasp
-berry cotton candy, ink stain, ebony
charcoal curmudgeon smudge) and
texture (wisp, willow tree, wallow). You
wave your birdless hands, cloud phalanges
stretched toward an arrogant stop sign sun.
Remember to breathe, blue lungs and golden
gills rising and falling like scales from azure
eyes. Surprise yourself with a crimson blush
brush dawn, a quiet hollow-boned apostrophe
marking possession of the addled horizon blur.
Concur with last night’s fading-now moon
mother, orphaned softly by her leaving, be
-lieving only in the last etched trace of her
papery skin. Begin again, crushed against
the jagged claws of land, cradled to the salty
curve of sea. You get to choose. The joy of muffled
silence, or the shaky thumpsong ache of blue.
Prompted by Toads.