A Gallon of Paint Comes Open in My Trunk
Carolyn Williams-Noren 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. |
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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.
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