We laughed in a room of
the color of wilting irises,
once beautiful, now old.
We always had the cheap light bulbs.
The yellow light tiredly tinted the shadows.
And then after buckets of color,
we laughed in a room with a color my dad calls pear.
But not the pale dusty soft pear from the copper-colored fruit bowl,
No.
The bright yellow-green pear you slice with a knife
crisp like stepping on an ice cube.
It was the same color as the kitchen,
where on hot summer nights we’d open the windows
around a plate of bibimbap, Mexican chorizo and eggs, or raisin chocolate chip cookies.
It tasted like the light cast from a warm lamp.
Hazy but comfortable.
Then, finally,
we laughed in a room of deep blue
like the foggy Gatorades we kept in the back cupboard.
It wasn’t the same when we left.
No, it's just not the same.
During weekends there we saw our dad.
No, our other dad.
the color of wilting irises,
once beautiful, now old.
We always had the cheap light bulbs.
The yellow light tiredly tinted the shadows.
And then after buckets of color,
we laughed in a room with a color my dad calls pear.
But not the pale dusty soft pear from the copper-colored fruit bowl,
No.
The bright yellow-green pear you slice with a knife
crisp like stepping on an ice cube.
It was the same color as the kitchen,
where on hot summer nights we’d open the windows
around a plate of bibimbap, Mexican chorizo and eggs, or raisin chocolate chip cookies.
It tasted like the light cast from a warm lamp.
Hazy but comfortable.
Then, finally,
we laughed in a room of deep blue
like the foggy Gatorades we kept in the back cupboard.
It wasn’t the same when we left.
No, it's just not the same.
During weekends there we saw our dad.
No, our other dad.
