Yellow
I had jaundice as a baby.
I was born with yellow skin.
I now lay my head on my mattress—
like a leaf falling to a grassy bed.
Pain, sick, please.
It’s time to sleep.
Markers are in my hands.
Van Gogh loved yellow.
I can’t look at his art
without seeing through
his electric eyes.
Pain, sick, please.
Kerouac
said something about
yellow, in that book I could hardly read,
the one that mangled my senses.
“fabulous yellow roman candles
exploding like spiders
across the stars.”
I didn’t know spiders could explode.
I want to explode.
Pain, sick, please.
I grind bananas until they’re smooth.
I kiss Fall on the mouth and walk away.
I dehydrate, so my urine is my favorite shade.
I stretch my golden halo out and hula hoop.
Pain, sick, please.
We are in dark, no starry times.
I admit to myself that to know my soul
is to know yellow.