Surrender

There is, we now know,

a conspiracy of yellow.

Everywhere and under-

the-radar, yellow

like dying, in the number

9 and on Fridays, yellow.

In a joke, a yodel-signal,

breath this May morning,

an orange, the umbrella

yellow, umbrage,

embarrassment, an ember

—let it intensify,

yellow. Though

it means us harm,

she’s a warm harm,

everything yellow,

coincidental whispering,

the missed call

from up north,

a Post-it , that sundress

at the shipyard, and if

yellow is not

what should

overmaster us

what could possibly

in this bright world be.

Pony-boy Staying Green

He was the closest I ever got to being in love. I sat on the cracked linoleum stairs in the basement passively listening to my mom do laundry. She asked how school had been that day and I answered what I could. I wanted to tell her that the trajectory of my life had just taken an entirely new course. How could I tell her that stars are born and die and none of it matters because I liked a boy? I was not ready to let her know that my life was engulfed in emerald shades of newness. My preteen hand pressed into the metal grooves at the edge of the step until my palm became serrated while the other sweat into his paper note. The rock walls of the basement always smelled like water they couldn’t keep out. In an uncharacteristically dramatic fashion, I decided that given any number of hypotheticals that put his life at risk, I would die for him.

We had been the quiet kids since pre-school but I took pride in knowing I was the one he talked to. No one was worthy or knew how to listen to what he had to say, except for me. He saw the world so differently than everyone else. He wouldn’t read books so that his own writing would remain pure of outside influences. He said “See ya” the way his mom did. He spoke of being taken seriously and the curse of memory. Worlds of green glimmered in his brown eyes.

***

I was surprised when he texted me last spring break. We saw each other in passing fairly often, but never purposefully. But, I was glad to receive his offer of a hike. He picked me up in his mom’s old car. The smell of leather, her stale cigarette smoke, and fresh-cut wood brought me back five years. It is the smell of wood that I remember him by. I remember how I used to crave that sweetly earthy scent. He is the only person I have ever known who smells distinctly like an object I can place. He had the radio on, but all the stations we grew up with had changed. We asked each other about school and our summer plans, but the radio did most of the talking.

***

He would walk over sometimes when I still lived in the little green house with white trim. The green came from the plastic siding that normally only appears in beige. The concrete porch was always littered with pieces of broken whicker from the furniture my mom found on sidewalks. The porch swing sat facing the direction he’d walk from. His coming was never announced, so I’d just sit and look and sigh some days. He didn’t live far, but a hot angry road separated us, and only he was allowed to cross it. It was spring and the pear tree was blooming but not yielding. The porch was surrounded by thick hydrangeas that spilled through the wood rail by the swing with its chipping paint. I could only sit there and revel in my lovesickness when the hornet was away. It lived in the corroding metal piping of the swing and it was never angry but rarely welcome. The best time to sit on the porch was during a thunderstorm.

We’d watch the gray clouds gather together in thick masses. The smell of petrichor sat heavy in our lungs. We’d swing back and forth and listen to the creaking of wood and chain. Fat drops of water would announce the coming drenching. The pale gray of the sidewalk would darken with water until it matched the angry clouds. Warm winds rustled through the hydrangeas causing them to whisper amongst themselves. We embraced our quiet nature during those storms. We were content to let the storm do the talking as it sent sharp tendrils of light through the sky.

***

Spring was peeking back out from behind the door in the graveyard. The late snow had melted and the warming sun made the air smell of earth. The grass felt bold enough to be green again. His suggestion of walking around the cemetery hadn’t felt macabre at the time, but every grave we passed belonging to a soul gone too soon made me feel on edge. The real draw of the cemetery was its summit overlooking the city skyline. I didn’t know how to be quiet around him anymore and I asked him nonsensical questions until I remembered a paper I had written in 8th grade. Most of the buildings downtown are empty, I told him, even before Covid no one used them. Neither of us had been in many of them and I suggested changing that. I knew him well enough at least that he would say yes. After a couple of rounds of reassuring seriousness, we picked a target.

I know both of his middle names and every sport his siblings have ever played, but when I look at his face, the lines don’t quite match up. I seem to remember his nose following a different slope, but his eyes still carry those emerald hues. His hair is darker and we don’t have the same friends anymore. The only thing that holds us together is the past. I watched him take pictures of all the trees that failed to bloom in the graveyard. I wondered if his camera roll was full of dead trees.

Our city is a dead thing too. I tell people that it is vibrant and gold, but staring up at the office tower all I could see was gray. We tried the first glass door to no avail, and he cursed under his breath. I tried another one and it gave, engulfing us in the stale smell of the lobby. The security guard stopped wandering aimlessly and approached us as we moved to the elevators. He said something to us but all I could hear was the blood in my ears. He repeated his question. It was the name of a business I had never heard of, but I nodded and said yes. By the time we were alone in the elevator, all the feeling had left my knees. He pressed the button for the highest floor.

The 25th floor of the building was completely deserted. Monitors and desks sat gathering dust, only existing for spreadsheets that wouldn’t be filled. Cardboard boxes sat half-filled. We tried locked doors as we moved to the windows that stood in place of walls. I pressed against the glass and let my fingers muddy the reflection. It was the first time in months that I felt like I was in the beating moment. I thought, ‘This is the part in the movie where they kiss’ but I just stared at the reflection of his shoes in the window. We didn’t say much, just commented on the city below us. Our silence wasn’t a shared secret anymore. Looking past him I could see the plastic turf of our high school field with the only green grass for miles.

Shades of Purple Innocence

A girl in a field of purple flowers,

White dress blowing in the wind,

Her young skin glistening in the sun,

A world of orchids surrounding a lilac flower.

One little flower

Growing taller and taller,

Day turns to night,

Months turn to years,

Her shades of purple innocence growing darker,

A sense of untainted beauty still remaining,

Now a wise woman looks over the field,

Reminiscing about young memories,

Once a little girl in a white dress,

Stemming into a strong flower,

A world of orchids surrounding each other