I am in the lemon-green room. This room
as if the color has exploded the softening
comfort of green, covering the worn
books, the discarded folders. Let me say
that this is a green of the shade of light
filtering through leaves. Imagine a bowl
of green olives or grapes in their variety
of shades, this is the green I speak of,
and I must be clear about this, for green
is as fickle as the bodies we live in.
This green has exploded over the room and settled
gently over the reams of paper, the boxes
in the multi-voiced shades of my island.
And I sit here, dappled as if the trees
above are the filter over me,
and that lime tree, stunted by the entanglement
of its roots in the pot, smiles sheepishly
in the corner. I am here thinking
of the sensuality of the dye that covers us
and turns us into creatures longing for shadows
or startling light, because I am feeling the news,
the chattering noise of a body broken by bullets,
by the illogic of why, by the heavy sorrows.
Forgive me for asking you to take
me into your verdant backroom,
forgive me if I sit quietly in the corner
rocking, maybe, but hoping for
earth to hold my vegetable self steady.