My father comes every day, looks
through the glass at me, in the incubator,
so we can be together in our aloneness,
later holds me in the palm of his hand
where I gaze into his blue eyes,
though I have no word for it.
Our ocean a swimming pool,
in the six and unders, the starting gun
cracks, our small bodies bend and flex,
smack into the water, except I’m still
standing on the block, unsure, the last
to dive, only after I see my sister
waving madly, then churn my way
through the blue water to the other side.
Lapis blue ring I have coveted,
a friend’s dog named Blue,
the enameled azure desert sky.
The weight of indigo. Blue green
pond water thick with algae.
Darkest blue of a moonless night.
Ice blue. Blue lagoon.
The way my father’s body
turns a little blue after death,
a marbled blue, and I sit with him
so we can be together
in our aloneness.
