Susan Marie Lavallee

It was blue's fault.
Blue drew a sky
and an ocean.
It was yellow's fault.
Yellow drew a hot sun
in the sky
and a sandy island
in the ocean.
It was green's fault.
Green drew a turtle
under the hot sun
in the sky
on the sandy island
in the ocean.
But mostly,
it was brown's fault.
Brown drew a boy
with a frown
by the turtle
under the hot sun
in the sky
on the sandy island
in the ocean.
Had it not been for blac,
black who drew a rescue ship,
I would rather
a sheet of blank paper.

I wonder
what it was like
on the way
to emergency
(being whisked
to pump out death,
my mind
a doused fire.)
I wonder
(bless Mr. Goodhew,
bless Mr. Paramedic
and the toy van
with lights
the zoomed red-
red)
if the moon hung
on the branches
like egg whites;
if a jam
of crickets
gawked as we sped
like a run-away
ice cream truck
through intersections.
If dogs howled.
If a cat stirred
in sleep
like a shein of worms.
Was I pretty
lying sheeted
like a Snow White
waiting to be kissed.
Bad apple
in her tummy.

Susan Marie LaVallee lives in a small seaside town on the windward side of Oahau with a cat, a bird and a tropical fish. Originally from Santa Monica, Ca, she relocated there in 1987 and continues to teach English.

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