Blue

By: Danielle Schroeder

My mother once told me that some people are naturally sad. She explained that some people’s

insides are painted more shades of navy than crimson.

Water flows from the moon and her tears are the ichorous liquid that oils the automaton.

The cries of thunder are melancholic wails of unrequited love, and bursts hit with every crack of

water on the tin roof.

My heart…my inkspot creates pictures amidst hydrangeas and baby’s breath, and scripted

letters that smear lines like water over pen. I no longer wish to color within lines when all my

paintings are archaic endeavors or underwater expanses.

I’m dripping down, and golden hands that reach to pick me up don’t hold on to anything solid.

Their fingers come back empty and wet and tasting of moonlight.

I don’t evaporate.

My expanse reabsorbs into the damp earth and I hear those crise and odes from voices not

unlike my own. The sky scoops me up, and with each passing minute the sounds of distress

rising with the sky must cover her ears, allowing us to fall back down, creating bursts on tin

roofs.

Listen when the raindrops sing.

Only the blue can.

Spring 2020 Issue