Ellen Kombiyil

Georgia

For months, I painted blue.
I painted until I was drunk with blue,

until lines grew thick, like innuendoes—
not skulls, but the shadows of skulls

in desert's harsh light. I was painting
in the place of making and unmaking—

everything spilled open—tugging loose,
breaking the dry river stones until

their geode hearts bled. I heard the jay cry
thief, thief, marking the air.

In the silence after, I could almost trace
the sound back to the beginning,

to blue lines liquid with light, I named
Canyon. Sediment. Layers of Rock.

 

The Matador's Daughter

won't eat meat
says red is a sound

not a color
that blossoms into fruit

Flowers follow
when she runs

headlong through the streets
apples open

when she peels them
with her fingers

 

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