You –
yellow in 5 Acts,
yellow in division to make up a whole
– belong to the morning, shuffling in early hours
busy with errands of growth so, half asleep, I hear
the rustle of you working, know the outburst of your
shape, comfort in company of distance, company
that doesn’t speak.
Oh, you
– yellow as it exists in movies,
or in sunsets –
are the result of years-ago hours spent battling numbers
at a kitchen table, DIY projects: a gardened golden
summation sitting in my mum’s vase, on my bedroom
desk that was chosen, cleaned for me.
Oh –
yellow in last scene
yellow in prologue
– what was it like in the field where you were born?
How did it feel to raise your dark centre, round of
a moon, up to the sky? Did you rise from the earth –
in the mass of your comrades– knowing that you
would be mine?
Here
– yellow of egg yolk
yellow of cut roots –
I get to look at you, see you alive.
