Prisoner
Gave it my best shot, cherie, tried
to see the blue sky that domed
above me as blueing, tried to see it
go on and on blueing, tried to see it
the way linguists tell us primitive tribes
(sans Blackberry, Mace, HumVee)
breast a clearing in the forest and lo!,
the Goddess Sky, blueing into being
because their native tongues say it so.
Alas, terminally monolingual,
shackled in this dank English gaol,
only the dullness of blue stasis avails.
Your blue irises will never blue for me.
Copyright © Roy Jacobstein All rights reserved
Arts & Letters, 2007
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