|albicant:||whitish; becoming white|
|amaranthine:||immortal; undying; deep purple-red colour|
|aubergine:||eggplant; a dark purple colour|
|azure:||light or sky blue; the heraldic colour blue|
|celadon:||pale green; pale green glazed pottery|
|cerulean:||sky-blue; dark blue; sea-green|
|cinnabar:||red crystalline mercuric sulfide pigment; deep red or scarlet colour|
|eburnean:||of or like ivory; ivory-coloured|
|flavescent:||yellowish or turning yellow|
|greige:||of a grey-beige colour|
|heliotrope:||purplish hue; purplish-flowered plant; ancient sundial; signalling mirror|
|hoary:||pale silver-grey colour; grey with age|
|kermes:||brilliant red colour; a red dye derived from insects|
|madder:||red dye made from brazil wood; a reddish or red-orange colour|
|mauve:||light bluish purple|
|mazarine:||rich blue or reddish-blue colour|
|sable:||black; dark; of a black colour in heraldry|
|titian:||red-gold, reddish brown|
My creative writing professor told me to stop
writing about love. I asked him why and he said,
“Because you have turned it over and over in your hands,
felt every angle, every fault, every inch,
every bruise. You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spent the next 3 weeks writing about science
and space. Stars exploding.
Getting sucked into a black hole.
How much I wished I could sleep inside of that nothingness
without being annihilated. What an exploding star
would taste like. If it would make our stomachs glow
like fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks
under our tongue.
My creative writing professor told me that those poems
weren’t what he was looking for.
He tells me to stop writing about outer space.
Stop writing about science.
Again, I ask him why. Again, he says,
“You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spend the next three weeks writing about my mother,
how we are told we can’t make homes inside
of other human beings, but the foreclosure sign
on my mother’s empty womb tells me that women
who give birth know a different,
more painful truth.
My creative writing professor tells me I am both talented
and hopeless, that everything I write is both visceral and empty,
a walking circus with no animals inside
but a beautiful trapeze artist with a broken hip
selling popcorn in the entrance-way.
He tells me to stop writing about my mother. I don’t ask why.
I pick up my books and my notepad
and I leave his office with my war stories
tucked under my tongue like an exploding star,
like the taste of the last person I ever loved,
like my mother’s baby thermometer, and I do not look back.
We are all writing about our mothers, our lovers,
the empty space that we will never be able to breathe in.
We are all carrying stones in our pockets
and tossing them back and forth in our hands,
trying to explain the heaviness
and we will never stop writing about love,
about black holes, about how quiet it must have been
inside the chaos of my mother’s belly,
inside the chaos of his arms,
inside the chaos of the spaces in every poem
I have ever written.
None of this is ruined.
Do not listen to them when they tell you that it is.
Upside down in each pack
But I hate that people notice
When you gain three pounds,
But not when you buy a new hat.
I’ve been told that the way I sleep
With one leg draped over
The person lying next to me
But I think it’s annoying
When people tell me
I look pretty,
But only when I paint my face.
I’ve heard that old men
Like to touch the girls who work late at bars,
But I want to know
Why they never kiss the women they married
fourty-two years ago.
I’ve noticed that mothers teach their daughters
That it’s rude to refuse a hug
From an uncle they’ve met three times,
But forget to teach them
That they aren’t obliged to kiss
The boy who paid for dinner.