Party Trick

Then he boasted that he could cry blue –
yes, weep cornflower or grape or bubblegum.

As easy as one chalks a snooker cue,
he could squeeze out drops of delphinium

from both irises without perspiring,
provided there was a safe, open space

far from naked flames or faulty wiring.
I admit it: the promise of the taste

of devil’s dye or backscattered bluebells
piqued my interest. In a disused underpass

he adopted the stance and his eyes welled
with fine powder, like chalk or bonfire ash.

And yes, it was blue, whatever it was,
like periwinkle, bruises or the sheen

of blackbird wings. At first it was a gauze
of lazuli, a subtle aquamarine

shimmering that bloomed into a mushroom
cloud of Manhattan Project indanthrene,

and kept growing, until even the moon
turned blue, and blue was all that I could see.