waves

milk is every color but white and
sometimes, a bit of weak blue.
nourished by skylight's where the sky
forbids certain cliche' hues,
while absorbing
all others.

the colors i see, are the frequencies rejected.

on my colorless days, nothing gets in.
when he was very small, my child
watched wild kaleidoscope's
hammering off my skin in directionless
flight. depending, he'd grow
agitated or quiet ... sad or sleepy from
trying to imitate me. in turn,

i learned to drift-pile these times into
the corners of his absence -- night time,
or days when he was away, visiting ...
so, in his presence, i sought porousness
-- a welcoming toward all color --
to his eyes, i became
transparent ... even invisible.

this experience of his mother,
most comforting and familiar to him,
easiest for him to share.
in his lightness, he could sense me most
through what he was, himself.

every explanation is partial. what's reflected,
is underscored by what's absorbed.
shingled color inset, overlaid, splayed
in streaming rivulets like
root systems of trees or grief. fire-spackled shadow ...

and so the day goes where i felt his tiny hand
in mine or woke with him wet on my chest in deep sleep.
the very weight of him, his mass and substance,
still fills me with inexplicably bright levity.