yesterday, blue throated

take a blue iris into a field and lay there
like it is your deathbed.
take a green sprig of grass for your eyes and
remember the blue is for his
and entwine them, somehow holding onto a maybe
wedging it between your teeth
trying not to swallow it whole
where it would then be gone, hidden in the hollow of your throat
glued.

and you'll have a glued maybe there, printed
to the sorry pink flesh in blue ink
hoping that the blue-on-pink doesn't bleed and choke you
quite red.

but laying on your back makes it harder for the ink to wash down into
your bloodstream
so it will stay welded with your memory there,
just there under the sky for ever
you're afraid that if you move the maybe will release its grip
and you will forget all that blue.
yet how could you forget with it all mixing right over your head?
when you swallow it the sky will turn dark and black.
suddenly nothing is blue and everything is mottled
gray-and-white
like the photographs your parents keep in a russet box beneath the sewing
cabinet.

all you have left is remembering and that goes away in a
quick fall
to burial grounds in separate worlds.
and you realize that every graygrave stone has a thousand
maybes in its stomach
swallowed when the glue broke on the back of each throat
and they choked, drowning
because remember, all water is naturally blue
so carefully you arrange the one big maybe to rest on the tip of your tongue
and you will leave the field, turning
maybe
to
promise.