Bruises
In the purple blossom
of her bruises
she traces the shape
of his knuckles.
Cries at the glad fall
into the gentle browns
of his eyes, strength
of his black hair.
She learns how to leave,
how to say “no”.
Her Hair
I sleep one week with a blonde,
the next a redhead.
She despises her original
mucky brown.
Today she is purple,
so I’ll choose blue.
She is a woman of a certain age,
but, I want it like the photo
on front of the box.
Vibrant, bright, a blue sear
of sky.
Hope it goes.
The Wombwell Rainbow 