They say it’s not black and white, but grey.
I want that grey instead of white-hot, instead of black as dead earth: my boy's seizures colored both.
And I have been looking for a long time.
I am searching for grey that is smooth river stone, mackerel sky. Even the pure white of soft wind would do.
I hide the black—inside—that sometimes spews out swift red swathes.
I want the white of ocean foam, sand dollar, my boy’s smile, not the blinding white scorch of relentless electric screams.
I am looking for the grey that lingers, soft like a ribbon ...
a dream ... smoke.
My white is thin and brittle, chipped, the black rottenness glistening beneath—stinking, putrid.
Give me simple grey—easy on my mind’s eye—give me mackerel sky.
|photo by Michael Kolster|