Angie works toward the whispered news of my thumb.
The nail salon, a routine congregation where I am anything
but recognized, misunderstood in azul y cuerpo.
Lapis: such a rare color in nature. I am many
men left at the rim of thirst and quiet. Disgusted by ultimatum,
I grind ultramarine, clothe my virgin keratin in an attempt.
Call it oxymoron, where to shed is to gain worship,
polish escaping into the hidden temples of my teeth.
I dare celebrate the painting and the peel, each nail
a Cassius Blue stumbling toward its first spring.
Now, I say things like I want instead of I sometimes.
My color in the doorway’s cuticles, my lover’s shoulder
blades: Delphiniums, stems where I once laid my palms
and what am I left with? Continents unveiling themselves.
I let Pangea come again. In the slow misplacement
of myself, I am whole. None spoke of touching blue to blue—
searching the sea for permanence, I find ten thieves
pocketing air for tomorrow, for never too late.
I have always wanted to be this bold, laid bare
within the hands of a Dominican woman. She asks,
¿Estás seguro de que quieres este color?
and I whisper, yes.