The color absence is yellow and blood
red, bones of glass shattered on the floor
with no broom or dustpan in line of sight.
Did you see me walking the other day?
I was delivering you in the flex of my arms,
sleeves folded back to conceal the rips
of laughter. I wonder if you still hold
the last words you spoke to me in your
pocket like a brand new set of car keys.
Don’t you worry that I forgot my jacket
in the freezing cold rain? Or maybe the wind
rubs its hands together on the front porch
waiting to come back inside. The color
absence glazes its palette in the summer
fallow, knocking sugar skulls against pine
doors, brittle to the touch and slapped with
salt water. If endings spring forth like a geyser,
then let me catch the steam on the way down.
Ezra Solway writes in Philadelphia where he received an MFA in Creative Writing at Temple University this past spring. His writing has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and featured in The Jewish Literary Journal, North of Oxford, and Small Leaf Press, among others. You can follow his writings on twitter at @SolwayEzra