Pallid Sundays without him.
Cerise sunrise pools outside my window
into amber, drips of sun gem’s gusto
in a rippleless puddle.
I enjoy none of it.
But once he’s here,
my mind fractures into kaleidoscope—
chapel stained-glass windows
at 6 in the morning
when only the pastor is praying.
I am yellow. I am cerulean. I am silver.
I am orange with crimson blotches, burning
Why are you mixing every color in the clouds? he asks.
My dear, our world is a crystal’s aura.
Don’t close your eyes.
About the Author
KATHRINE YETS lives in West Allis, WI.
She spends her nights as a closing librarian, who hides behind her desk reading and writing.