Blue

Pamela Miller

Blue

follows me everywhere I go.

Your eyes were blue;

they probably still are.

The sky was blue, and too cold even

for my coat.

And long ago

the dress was blue; the gingham dress

I wore to see

Mary Jemison, woman of

the Gennessee.

The bells were blue; the bluebells

in the flowerbed:

grape hyacinth.

The lake was blue

and brown and gray and gold–

the sky a warm blue cup.

And Pennsylvania hills

in morning fog

were blue.

In drifted dips across the the field

to school

the snow was smoky blue.

And Joann

had blue eyes, a newborn blue—

always closed;

and above her gravestone too—

a March sky trying to be blue.

My wedding flowers were blue and white

and lavender

and I was dead;

is it consent when you're dead?

The mountains were blue

in Tennessee–

(the honeymoon).

The pool was blue, as were his jeans

and when I ran

my tears were hard;

frozen; and blue

and blue and blue,

and so were you—

blue and warm and far away.

Was I dead?

The sky was blue

and we were talking in the wind

and sun, in coats because that spring

was new yet, barely born.

I was cold and you were warm

and blue.

And gone:

but blue still follows me

everywhere.

I was married and alone

and your eyes

were blue.