IT'S NOT a tragedy, people
tell you now. It's not
your fault you were born
with eyes that distort
true colors. As a child,
it was your biggest secret-
how the box of crayons
confused you with an array
of sixty-four rainbow hues,
how you thought turquoise,
blue-green and aquamarine
were fancy, grown-up names
for the same shade. No,
they insist, it isn't important,
at least you can still see.
They cannot understand
your grief, your belief
that each color is a secret-
a spell unlocking worlds
you could never traverse.
How can you make them see,
it is a tragedy? You cannot
describe what peach really is,
distinguish blue bruises
from purple welts and scars,
nor prove that, when a thorn
pierces your skin, there is
a world of difference between
the drop of blood swelling
on your finger, and the stem
of the rose you refuse
to release from your grip.
