Hope darts in awkward
orange, flutters at the dot where
color washes out. Green shrinks
to brown in three-digit heat. Yellow subsides
to beige. Hope knows that my son will never see
the Southwest vistas without their scarves of haze. Hope
also knows that he’ll walk into a 107-degree evening to photograph
fanning strands of salmon sky. Haze used to outline drops
of humidity like a coloring book’s indigo shapes wait for crayons. Now,
haze lifts in grey sheets or drops and collects, puddling in black parking
lots. I’ve nothing left for you today, nothing but some violet
scraps like the abandoned paper of an unwrapped
crayon. I am the child with blue eyes and white
hair, staring out from the faded matte photo,
frowning from behind her mother’s thigh.
Kimberly Williams is the author of Finally, the Moon, a full-length collection of poetry. She lives in the capital of Australia while pursuing her PhD in poetry. She is originally from Detroit, MI.