I don’t see a color,
I see a word. But when you begin
to describe it, and the words
dribble out of your mouth,
dripping down your chin and neck,
staining your stubble and skin,
I see a plum—your lips
wrapping around its body,
your teeth sinking into its
black-purple flesh, releasing its
life force, your tongue
taking it and coalescing your own
life force with it. Your lips
touch and part, touch and part,
and red juice sputters, finding a home
inside the pores on my nose.
Hours later it resurfaces, oil
layering on my skin’s
porcelain shell.
