"what color is your joy?"
he asked us, the auditorium bustling with rustlewhispers, cracklecoughs.

"what color is your joy?"
because he had asked them, the innercity bronx kids, who lived in the smell of burning flesh and deep hiphop blood, and they had responded with bright ribbons that hang now in the tate or the met or some dazzling place. he asks us,

"what color is your joy?"
and i try to see it, wonder what color i would turn if i could be joyful all the way through. pink, certainly, the soft pink of those mornings when i awaken into a cradle of your breath at my neck and your ankles twined with mine, held tight in my trust of you and the strength of love. the curling butter yellow that comes with hot tea and sunlight on water, a shade or two lighter and more creamy than "happy," for the two are sisters but not twins. i think my fingertips would be navy green, feeling the curve of your back and the round satisfaction of running a hand through the discount barrel of beads at the jewelry store. i would be tinted with the warm grey of contentment, a flannel color, thin from wrapping around so much.

my joy requires a small rainbow to be fully articulated, but if i had to choose a ribbon, it would be pink silk.

tell me,
what color is your joy?