Kind of Blue

by Lynn Powell

Not Delft or

delphinium, not Wedgewood

among the knickknacks, not wide-eyed chicory

evangelizing in the devil strip—

But way on down in the moonless

octave below midnight, honey,

way down where you can't tell cerulean

from teal.

Not Mason jars of moonshine, not

waverings of silk, not the long-legged hunger

of a heron or the peacock's

iridescent id—

But Delilahs of darkness, darling,

and the muscle of the mind

giving in.

Not sullen snow slumped

against the garden, not the first instinct of flame,

not small, stoic ponds, or the cold derangement

of a jealous sea—

But bluer than the lips of Lazarus, baby,

before Sweet Jesus himself could figure out

what else in the world to do but weep.