A Gallon of Paint Comes Open in My Trunk
I've driven home uncertain about blue,
rethinking thirty three dollars and ten cents
worth of turquoise—a robin's egg
but dimmer, deeper. I hope
not too loud, and I hope in the sweet spot
between baby and mint, but I worry
about brightness as I pop the trunk
and now I see brightness. What I heard knocking
every time I braked, every corner
was this can, heavy
then lighter and rolling
in its own made tide. River's Edge
and what was contained
and what will soon be sharp-peaked--
scratchy in the fibers, fixed—is now slosh
—changeable, sopping, awash.
Cupfuls back into the can, slick
up the forearm, crusting
near my elbow.
What other day is like this?
Finger’s edge as squeegee. Hand
as dam. Nap soaked, whorled.
There's no losing
this blue. Every time I drive, I'll be pulling along
a small room coated with it.
About the Author: Carolyn Williams-Noren was a 2013 recipient of an Artist Initiative grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board, and a 2014-2015 winner of a McKnight Artist Fellowship, selected by Nikky Finney. She's also the founder and caretaker of a free poetry library in the Minneapolis neighborhood where she lives with her family. Her chapbook, Small Like a Tooth, is available from Dancing Girl Press.