Portrait in Crayola
My outer edge is frozen steel,
A razor drawn in blue and gray,
A switchblade shining in the sun.
That wicked knife, that cold abyss
Uncaring as the distant stars
Holds those at bay I will not tell
The spending of seventeen years
That makes them longer than an age.

Follow light dancing down the edge.
The metal's pale, blue tint grows rich,
And it becomes the royal hue
Of the people and birds and beasts
Capering on old china plates
In my grandmother's dining room
And curtains hanging dark and thick
From a hall's ceiling to the stage.
My memory is bound in threads
Of mystic azure; locked away
Sleep all the tales I will not tell.

Walk along those threads of night sky
All through the many days and nights.
Pass the shores of a distant lake.
See the haze of approaching heat,
The red of rage, of flame, of blood.
It is the red that drives me on,
Moves my disused tongue to words.
The red of all-consuming flame,
Of love that, burning, will not die
Orders my days and set my course.
It drew a reader from her chair
And sent her on a strange crusade.

Know this, my nature in crayons,
My life sketched on the color wheel,
And you know more of my nature
Than most I meet will ever learn.