i bought a blue dress so i could slip into the sky;
to cradle tangibility with camouflage,
dusk’s disappearance transpiring, the poison seeping, pooling around my ribs.
begging for affection from anyone while indian summer rain races towards wet earth,
feeling the wilderness of your weight.
blue fades,
to midnight,
to three.
i’ve heard death is like water.
and you were born in the morning.
your tiny eyelashes painting a silver sunset inside our mother.
settling like cobalt ash raining onto my shoulders.
unearthing blue
you are the other woman and your voice is strong and wild when it billows in the wind, dissipating like grey confetti.
i hear it in oregon, speaking amongst the thunder.
(the rain sounds like a skittish heart)
i hear your gentle whisper embedded in my sheets (always).
how on earth can you harness love?
such became a death sentence,
your shadow of silver, holding my body in the light.
i feel you deepest when i want love the most.
“Wilderness of Your Weight” 2016
Untitled photographs, 2016
Olivia Bee
