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.

Pamela Zimmerman grew up on a 100-acre farm in New York state, where she spent all her time making up stories about her pets and dolls. When it comes to art and fiction, she's fascinated with how stories can be told by visual cues and enhanced with decorative and meaningful elements, whether rendered in words or colorful pastels. Storybook illustrations have captured her fancy since a very young age, and she's dreaming of writing and illustrating medieval fantasy books. In the meantime, she makes art as the inspiration strikes (or if she has a commission to fulfill), and writes fiction and nonfiction, and poetry that rhymes if she's lucky.