by Kelly Gemmill
Here in the attic room the larvae sleep
their ever quiet egg-sleep, hanging from
the walls and ceiling, purple. As Mother
and I raise brooms against the sea unborn
we paint it all with violet dust, some sort
of purple pollen seeming to glimmer
most awfully, here, in window light, in warm
and dusty attic light. The dreaming eggs
do mock the look of larkspur, vast sire of
the Teton canyons, buds I could not bring
myself to pluck. Their violet was a hue
of this world, sacred for its being real.
My thoughts are dyed the color of those nights.
Deep evergreen on meadow’s edge, low blues
of peak and sky, all shadows in the gloom,
all purple. Edges of the woods would sigh
to urge me back to their darkening pines;
They promised friendship, love that could not know
me. Now, the violet dust, it will not rest.
It only floats, here in this sultry room,
merely sparks in the sun and will not rest.