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Description
Its red makes me think
of carnations, scarlet and
blood and revolution—bright
flowers adorning the ends
of rifles and a soldier kissing
a child who has lost his
two front teeth.

Its orange makes me think
of terracotta roofs gleaming
in the European sunset, as I
coast through the atmosphere
on a rumbling, flying, roaring
jet engine, as I exhale fear and
inhale hope.

Its yellow makes me think
of plains of golden sun-
flowers, stretching out to
touch the Spanish horizon,
and the way I press my
nose against the window to
get a better look.

Its green makes me think
of ripe figs on gnarled trees,
and my great-grandmother’s
toothless grin as she plucks
them from low branches, and
how I so hated their mushy
insides.

Its blue makes me think
of the crashing, flooding,
pummeling waves of Nazaré
and the way my toes dance
away from their frigid embrace
—and back again despite my
mother’s worries.

Its purple makes me think
of violet grapes and the
men who smashed them
gleefully, envisioning bottles
of wine and rosy cheeks and
merry nights of praising
vinho.

I mark the date and count
the days and I dream
of returning to that
little country by the
sea.

Description
Its red makes me think
of carnations, scarlet and
blood and revolution—bright
flowers adorning the ends
of rifles and a soldier kissing
a child who has lost his
two front teeth.

Its orange makes me think
of terracotta roofs gleaming
in the European sunset, as I
coast through the atmosphere
on a rumbling, flying, roaring
jet engine, as I exhale fear and
inhale hope.

Its yellow makes me think
of plains of golden sun-
flowers, stretching out to
touch the Spanish horizon,
and the way I press my
nose against the window to
get a better look.

Its green makes me think
of ripe figs on gnarled trees,
and my great-grandmother’s
toothless grin as she plucks
them from low branches, and
how I so hated their mushy
insides.

Its blue makes me think
of the crashing, flooding,
pummeling waves of Nazaré
and the way my toes dance
away from their frigid embrace
—and back again despite my
mother’s worries.

Its purple makes me think
of violet grapes and the
men who smashed them
gleefully, envisioning bottles
of wine and rosy cheeks and
merry nights of praising
vinho.

I mark the date and count
the days and I dream
of returning to that
little country by the
sea.