By Andrea Lianne Grabowski
and so we color. and the vermillion is a wonder, and the violet, and the turquoise. the chipped plastic pen caps a conundrum, a worry, easily forgotten. the neon yellow is new. like the pine tree that has stood beyond the front window for decades. the periwinkle and the seascape from yesterday are new. gloves stained with sparkling lavender ink, gray hairs caught in their fibers, curls slipped from the comb tucked safely in its purse home. and so we color. sweet potatoes a marvel. silver spoons carriers of broccoli and chicken and wisdom like prophecy. the pink lipstick lives with the comb, in the purse so fiercely protected. it stains the water mug—though not as often as it should—as it once stained my cheek with every goodbye kiss. it’s christmas? the discovery could be made a hundred times and the wonder is still new. it’s cold. turquoise is the best color. the tree outside the window is wonderful. sacred daylily-colored pen. sacred indigo blue, sacred laughter and befuddlement. and so we color.
andrea lianne grabowski is a midwestern lesbian writer occupying anishinaabe land. her published work lives in HELL IS REAL Anthology, fifth wheel press, Scavengers, and elsewhere. she served as an editor for NMC Mag and is a Best of the Net nominee. you can find her making zines, on long drives being inspired by music, or peering in the windows of abandoned buildings.
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