Ugly; Yarrow; A Verse
Ugly comes quickly
and tells you to stare into it
As it stops right before you, like at a crosswalk,
You consider it.
Inside is a mirror,
Just a mirror
Maybe a sink
Crusty toothpaste, maybe
And you remembered to wipe off your eyeliner the night before
Maybe again you realize why you forget
Maybe you pretend yellow is gold
My Yarrow is trying.
It is pushing its way
Towards showing true leaves
But its so soft i always forget to tender it.
I’m working my way out of the outside
Into my life
And grabbing on to these slivers of sunshine
Warbling through the thickness of air,
And carrying it further
Everything seems to be
stretching unfolding and stretching
Unfolding and stretching and telling its story
A bright light and then reflection.
Today I saw two car blinkers,
The sound would be a wall of thunder. The color would be totality, pure black
There is the possibility of harmonization.
Of hue and tone,
Of the various ways blues can green,
And the awning of your transitions
Can be a translucent orange,
Letting the sky above you change its form to hug you a bit lighter.
Each day would be a verse,
Alive in the chamber of the being.
As we all know some days stand still,
Like a break,
And alone, one trumpet engages with the spectacle
One slowly rising to frantic brassy
Till the whole orchestra of your life crashes in,
Dripping like jazz
As you remember you love yourself,
As much as any god could promise,
And all the colors sway.
Rory Elliott is a poet residing in Portland, Oregon. She sees how her day might be going by the synchronicity of turn signals. She makes music for the walls and fellow queers and can't help anthropomorphizing everything. She has been published in the American Chordata, Structural Damage and the Pointed Circle.