white blindness

She is, of course, perfect.

White eyes in white skin in white linen.

Frosted, except to claw at the orange stains

the sun leaves on her cheeks, or

baring her teeth at anything crimson,

yellow,

and the way colonial blue

makes her turn away with a hand

over her mouth.  She prefers

lilies, or white oleanders, pure

she says, as she

is, and she still screams

at night, beating at bats winged with

fluorescence, holding her white

skirts high above the tide of vibrant

brilliance that seeks her out

to mark her, because

color and soul go hand

in hand in hand

you know.                                                          printable