Colorless State of Existence

 

 

I chose a rich scarlet shade,

the kind one does not wear everyday,

then carefully blotted.

 

Paper thin, with a weight,

not even detectable by ounces…

Once I laid a tissue across my palm,

blew upon transparent vessel’s breast

and watched it rise,

take flight and land softly

at my feet.

 

In the car I lay it folded

in four across my lap

and allow it time to know me.

I talk to it like a soldier,

tell it this mission

is not a suicide or a slight against

the green grass which lays waving

along this highway road.

 

Another mile to go.

 

The Klan have always been

all over this land;

they knew my granddaddy when

he was too small to know,

and they knew him after

he had grown too old to remember

a colorful state

of existence.

 

Several times I have seen them

from a distance,

white pointed hats devoid of nuances,

like a rainbow crafted

using White #5 or an uninhabited island

that screams “I am the world!”

 

The sign comes into view.

Underneath the smudge of mud

(the irked travelers form of dew),

I see the simple black print,

elegant letters stating

that I have arrived and

“This stretch of land

is cleaned by the Klu Klux Klan.”

 

My window is unrolling.

The Kleenex unfolding.

My arm upholding

this sacred decree.

 

May the gash of red lips

flow from this tissue paper’s kiss

and remind him there are colors

that describe the blood,

the rivulet of feelings which come from

up above and out through the human

capacity to feel,

and in through the human

desire to be valued for more than

body, money, skin—

recognized for soul and the ability to know

we all need understanding.

 

I let it go

and think,

May we be joined by these desires.

 

And with a little luck he will pick it up

and hold it slightly longer

than one should

a crumpled up tissue.

© Coleen T. Houlihan

Published in The Wilderness House Literary Review