Blue. I heard it in a song once,
but it wasn't my childhood or my song.
It was about a man and gods and lips,
and I suppose I know about those things.

My song was more of a hum; a small
vibration of mythological melody held 
in even smaller hands. 

 

A head of long dark hair pressed against blue walls 

that held more secrets than any Renaissance man that lay
restless listening to the hum of science and reason
that screamed sorcery on the steps of the chapel.

 

Mary wore blue. She promised to stay with me,
singing to me, in her metaphorical voice,
tales of sorcery cast out by small hands 
and her long dark hair pressed against my cheek;
her reason so sound in my planetarium 
of blue dwarves and elvish lore and Neptune,
because it was blue and she said it looked like God 
had never left the River Stix which ran through Heaven's gates 
and never mind the knocking on the walls because God hears 
her children no matter what name they give him.

 

My eyes weren't blue. They were my mother's eyes,
dark like Mary's hair pressed against my cheek.
And my mother sang to me about sunshine, so when 
the chapels turned to dust and the world was without
reason and screamed too loudly for a little girl to be heard
her name would stay imprinted on my blue lips
and God's planetarium would shake with the vibration 
of something bigger than science, myth or Heaven.