by Kelly Gemmill

Here in the attic room the larvae sleep
their ever quiet egg-sleep, hanging from
the walls and ceiling, purple. As Mother
and I raise brooms against the sea unborn

we paint it all with violet dust, some sort
of purple pollen seeming to glimmer
most awfully, here, in window light, in warm
and dusty attic light. The dreaming eggs

do mock the look of larkspur, vast sire of
the Teton canyons, buds I could not bring
myself to pluck. Their violet was a hue
of this world, sacred for its being real.

My thoughts are dyed the color of those nights.
Deep evergreen on meadow’s edge, low blues
of peak and sky, all shadows in the gloom,
all purple. Edges of the woods would sigh

to urge me back to their darkening pines;
They promised friendship, love that could not know
me. Now, the violet dust, it will not rest.
It only floats, here in this sultry room,
merely sparks in the sun and will not rest.


 

Kelly Gemmill moved to San Francisco after graduating from VCU in 2010, worked some odd jobs, realized nothing but poetry would make her happy, and started searching for MFA programs. Now, she’s attending St. Mary’s College of California to earn her MFA in poetry.

 

 

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