Courtney Hitson

*

A SORT OF BLUE

As if blue were translated into static. As if sky pressed into charcoal. As if black webbing could
encase early evening. As if tree limbs melted into water and spread like wandering ink. As if
lavender were electrified or heated by a new sort of pain. As if chalk and tar were mixed and
tinted with cerulean. As if sunrays struggled as wisps of memory against twilight. As if
depriving the heart of oxygen, the arteries darkened into splayed spider legs that clench to a
wilting, cobalt fig. As if blue could grimace. As if blue could crinkle with hurt. As if an
obsidian foot stepped into blue tights. As if covering the black everything in blue lace. As if
peppered indigo. As if the depths of black were illuminated with something human. As if
childhood trauma was exhumed from the sea. As if blue could sing dirges. As if depression had
a landscape of terrains fractured by rivers of language. As if the color seeped from my mother’s
iris and soured. As if blue were a whipping motion beating the breath out of my December body.
As if wrinkled denim was smeared with grease. As if the regrets withheld by a corpse. As if
now dead, your laughter oxidized to black fog.

*

*

A SORT OF SILVER

As if duct tape slathered in granules of diamonds. As if a charged laughter flattened. As if
sequined gravel. As if citrus tang glimmered. As if granite withheld the a priori. As if the blur
of hubcaps glistened a hurdling motion. As if silver credsendoed with self-importance. As if
metallic eyeshadow spread over sandpaper. As if a screech unfurling from the rollercoaster’s
wheels. As if a camera flash on fishscales. As if freedom could scintillate. As if to revel in the
taste of candy sours. As if smoldering steel. As if the sound of unzipping. As if a smog swirling
with grains of volcanic ash. As if teetering on the brink of color. As if the neural surge
preceding an epiphany. As if to brace as the skin is punctured. As if the climbing wait after
lightning. As if the pull propelling a thought across the synaptic gap. As if gravity’s tug
pleading you to earth during the skydive. As if the gurgling buzz of your finger in an outlet. As
is a wet crock pot glazed in salt. As if the rebounding of electrons in the atom’s nucleus. As if
the press of a forceful stare. As if toothpaste spattered on the faucet. As if a digitized silver. As
if gray pulverized into a sparkling angst. As if the circling indecision between fight or flight. As
if a proud and mechanistic silver. As if the crippled machinery of emotions. As if the conveyer
belt of time unwound into a glittering, enlightened present.

*

*

A SORT OF YELLOW

As if sunlight were filtered through the heart’s ventricles. As if yellow replaced an infant’s first
words. As if blue could bow down to light. As if the energy bound within decaying sap. As if
July rays were beaten on a rock. As if yellow could ruminate. As if yellow could evolve into
something other than color. As if daylight pressing hard through layers of sapphire skin. As if
yellow could lacerate and ooze grey. As if yellow could emanate the nostalgic. As if yellow
illuminated a despairing silhouette. As if the yellow aftershocks of a seizure. As if yellow could
curdle with angst. As if yellow could tingle with a knowledge that encircles cadavers of
darkness. As if the undulating ohm could glare open a feeling. As if the sky were the tone of a
hesitant smile. As if the air between held hands compressed tightly into a dense, glimmering
ball. As if the sixth sense of animals.

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