Of Blood and Light

Of Blood and Light The color of our childhood is yellow, but not the bruised sort, you know the one-- tarnishing to amber, never letting up. Not even the night has a say. No final word. No turning minute. We hold on to that blinding light like a swimmer pushing to the surface of water, like the word not fully erased ghosting through the page, like a buried toy whose hand breaks the surface of earth for its owners blessing. We ornament each other when we're young, taken out, put back, removed again, replaced once more. Tiny we are, citizens loyal. Never the one before the other. Yet last night, I dreamt of a woman whom I loved without respite. She was faceless. And my lips doused her soft body shear as paper. I saw everything, but I could not tell you the color. Not yellow. Something darker. Something only the pores of our faces knew, its light feeding recklessly on our blood. I wanted her again, and again. And again. And the next morning, before work, I saw myself in pieces hanging on the front porch, forgetting that our eyes sometimes betray themselves to what they know: glass hummingbirds bleeding light.