the color of everything

scenes crash across the backs of my eyelids

fuzzy outlines, the color of everything

bits and pieces remembered or constructed

laughing, crying,

grocery stores and parking lots,

a public pool and a bathtub:

places my nerves are permanently tied around

painted grey and flat

bursting from the roots,

spooling the unspooled. a child’s hands cannot

pour a solid foundation or fix a leaky roof—

not without help

no,

the flood waters will have no trouble with this house

the living room will fill up, and we’ll sit quietly

there are no heirlooms or photo albums

nothing to hold above our heads

nothing we want to keep dry

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