blue

Frances Brogan

in barcelona i saw cabeza de una mujer muerta. she is blue, of course. her
eyelids are like clams. she could have been sleeping, her smile soft with

moonlight. death is not as benevolent as this. some relative must have
straightjacketed her between the sheets, fecklessly trying to erase the

thrashing of her arms, the struggle of her eyes to stay open one moment
more. as if anyone goes gently to be snuffed out. in the furrow of her

mouth there is a quirk of amusement; she sees the upcoming weeks of
artifice, her life encrusted in sugar. we try to own what we do not know.

i am so blue all the time that death is seductive. but i think
if it sweetly crept into my bed at night i would fight.

to drown or to breathe water? the leaves of the gingko come back
green every spring and hope is a brutal ellipsis i dare not entertain.

a plaque on a bench, a tree in a park. the sky could not contain
all the souls we offer it. on the roof, i look up and wonder who else

is doing the same. the cerulean crackles, rich enough to eat. that’s what i
want to become when i die. i’ll ask picasso about what no artist ever had:

peace. the most saturated shade of blue,
it is always a little sad.

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Frances Brogan is a student and writer in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Her work has previously been featured in Blue Marble Review and The New York Times. She loves rainy days and modern art. Her favorite poets are Mary Oliver and Sylvia Plath.

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