Wren Donovan

I feel as if
wearing white.
White for mourning, white as ash
or bone or cloud or froth on waves
far out to sea. White as the opposite
of shadow, white as something lost.
White as a ghost.
White as the whites of frightened eyes
and teeth bared. Sugar, flour, mold.
Marble statues, milk and moon, monotony
of white noise. Your white shirts, and
don’t forget, the snow.
White is never really white, rather
pink or beige or grey or yellowed.
None of this is what I want to say.
Something about morning, something
about death, and honoring
and emptiness and full
moons marred with rabbits grey, and
marble veined with black. Old milk
and ancient ivory, linens stained with age
and old hair sickly gold. Guilt and
grief, and willing to forget about
the white sheets and the bared teeth
and the frightened eyes. These are not
related, not about you. White for
mourning, white as ash or bone or cloud
or froth on waves far out to sea.
This isn’t what I meant to say, at all.

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Image by Ralph from Pixabay