Just a day like any other, the sun not even shining,

You were into your Black Period,
as you called it, saying,
If Picasso could have a Blue one,
then why can't I have black?
You said it made dressing easy for you:
black shoes, black stockings, black dress,
black shawl, eye shadow, and your hair dyed black.

You said it made shopping easy.
You said you never tired of asking,
Do you have it in black?
You were always ready for funerals.
You said you'd never get married,
but if you did you'd already picked out
the color of your dress.

At first I couldn't believe my eyes:
a red streak in your hair,
gold earrings,
socks peeking out from your black skirt
that might be, just might be, red.
And that jacket, a deep blue, perhaps?

Next time there was yellow.
Just a day like any other, the sun not even shining,
not even spring, but your tee-shirt
canary yellow, gaudy as an egg yolk
splashed across a black iron pan.

You said it just happened.
You said you couldn't explain it.
But it was, you said, like
waking at midnight,
opening the curtains
and finding nothing but light.

Yellow
Brian Daldorph - The University of Kansas