- Vol. 06
- Chapter 11
What if we threw our shade in colour?
Purple dyed indigo, red bled crimson.
Jollity throws no shade.
Below, on a floor unseen, a room dressed yellow
hears the jolly,
smells their meat,
imagines their feast –
and conjures antecedents.
Yellow light, its shade an upturned ‘v’
casts mud upon the wall,
ditch-damp shadow of clasping hand,
bayonet tossed away in a final tremor,
writhing, gassed, screaming with horror.
I know. I spend too much time alone.
Sitting. Staring from this window.
Living the lives –
the shadowy –
that I can only see.
That only I can see.
I should be a Jolly.
I should cast no shade.
But I can only be me.