Some women claim the blues
to be a man, or some distant relative
of this style of being.
My mother will tell you, if you ask,
stories of her fathers hands,
hanging from the limbs
of starched white-collar shirts,
fragile and gaunt victims,
scarecrow fingers.
She will ask if crying
too often before he died
was a pact signed with the devil
in blue ink, the color we use to describe
the deep explosion of a waterfall,
the misery of a hazy day
when we find ourselves dancing
in warm summer rain.
My mother will tell you
the blues is the moment you realize
your father’s last breath landing against your skin.
All night, you stare into the mirror
at the swelling of your eyelids,
and sink, like molten rock
spilled from the lips of volcanic cracks
into the womb of the sea.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
