“This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.”
—Sylvia Plath, “The Moon and the Yew Tree”

White Light

Who decides what’s wrong and what’s right?

So many people suffered to perfect this drug. 

Before the irises bloomed,

there were lilies. A warm frost covers

everything snug. Moss and stones—all

their insides grown green. I watch a nurse

refill her gaping white jug. There’s a field of snow

and a field of sun. Do you want the frost

or the hug? Take the white light in,

and you can let everything go.

Pink Light

When you see pink, do you think Barbie or

Cancer? We’ve been trained to rewire our thoughts.

I use pink light when I want to look pretty,

pink noise when I tune everything out. 

The spine of this book is so broken. I’ve read 

the pages ten times too much. I refuse to use 

the word many. In poetry, none of the rules 

really count. Break the strongest and the weakest

start fighting. See? The carnations drank

the roses to drought.

Red Light

In the middle of France, there’s a desert. 

It’s not real, but there’s sand in your head. 

Now imagine the most pain you could possibly

feel. What color is it: is it blood or is it rust red? 

Maybe you can’t smell it but trust me. Black blood

billows from the mouths of the dead. Before you

pass out, take the lake to the tea tree. Now wrap 

your sad self around its sweet head. Good things 

aren’t meant to be alone, darling. No matter how much

you seek silence, the elegy you wrote must be read.

Orange Light

The horses in the stables eat oranges—

intact with their skins still on. No one 

has brought them to slaughter. Glue works 

best when everything moves on. When you 

see orange, do you think fruit or hunter? 

We’ve been trained to rewire our thoughts. 

I think the youth like me more than 

the gatekeepers. I throw my ream in the ring 

like a whore. Who wants a piece of my pages? 

Turn your hazard lights on and burn orange.

Yellow Light

Before you die, you first see a taxi. 

I know this because a car almost took my life. 

It was icy and I was driving. It doesn’t take much

to careen off a knife. I thought I saw a lily,

but it was linen. A light yellow that matched 

her short dress. I remember when she said she couldn’t

love me. The lemon matches flamed out in duress. 

The sewers in Paris are so old you smell them

all summer. When you’re in love, you block 

so much shit out. 

Green Light

On Christmas, no one can really go home. 

Home is a place that exists in the past. 

Do you remember yourself at your happiest? 

Some of the best memories smell like winter-whipped

pine. Some others smell like summer-drunk grass. 

If you bundle up a room full of presents, 

you’ll still crave the edgy emptiness of your last fast. 

Holidays are hooks of grieving green and greed

and yet nativities naively narrate each new year

as somehow different from the last.

Blue Light

In Québec, I got lost on the blue line. 

I spoke French, but couldn’t understand what 

they said. When the train moved faster, I 

balled small as a bullet. When it stopped, 

it was as if I were dead. I carried my ghost

groceries through the blizzard, without my

mittens or my hat. I spent the next two days

defrosting my pear-shaped plum-bruised hands. 

There is no light when the blue leaves 

your body. Everything turns a swollen blue-red.

Indigo Light

Look at the rain through the castle.

Nothing is stranger than air. Here we go again

drinking rose water. I shut the door, 

but the light filters there. The light on the wheel 

is a centipede. The spokes are the strands of its 

hair. The lake holds the secrets of summer. 

Two girls named Indigo once drowned on a dare. 

Their dull skulls scrape my tongue 

like rock candy. I taste their names 

like blue violets on air. 

Violet Light

Once, a lady read my aura. I thought 

she’d say it was blue, but I was misled. She said: 

You are a sea of violets, an amethyst 

of chrysanthemums, an angel in the bluest of red. 

I didn’t believe her and went Ouija. Starting 

seeing a dark spirit instead. When all the good

spirits have vanished, you too will be fooled

by the dead. Please don’t look straight at them. 

Look at the clear lake instead. The moon some nights

shines violet, and that’s when it swallows your head.

Black Light

There’s a cathedral at the end of this

chapter. I don’t make the rules, but no one

can go. Once, when I was delirious, I saw

the devil. Her red horns and wings

were dusted in snow. Hell isn’t as hot

as they say it is. Nothing is true,

we know. There’s a field of poppies

and a field of roses. Do you want the high

or the thorns? Take the black light in,

and you can’t let anything go. 

Note: “White Light” and “Black Light” were first published in Bad Lilies.