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Diagnose My Color Please tell me I can wrap my palm around our blazing sun and pull it from the sky so that its fiery tendrils are at my lips then reaching into my throat until the entirety of its grandeur is in my core. Tell me it will emit golden drops as it twirls on tiptoes at the base of my stomach, allowing its deep yellow to course through my veins, and its heat to rise and rise and carry me away with it. Please tell me that if you took your pocketknife, cut down from my collarbones to my bellybutton, and unfolded me, you would reveal walls painted in sweet lemons and daffodils, or perhaps a place where songbirds first learn to sing, or maybe just a space to return to – a space to soak your frostbitten fingertips after an ice blue winter. Please tell me that if you pressed your ear to my open mouth, you would hear the ocean calling, that you would hear the back and forth of frothy waves and the beating wings of seagulls. Tell me that salted pearls would roll off my tongue to find their way into the not yet yellow parts of your brain, to break themselves open and lay their divided halves belly up so you can trace the rings, trace the timeline that lead to their milky luster.

25 / VLR

Profile for Virginia Literary Review

Virginia Literary Review: Spring 2017  

Virginia Literary Review: Spring 2017