According to the Planets

and ancestors, our year begins and ends in Spring. The moon was a bored lion when I got my hot watermelon. My hair was a drop of lava turned to ice. If I become a turtle tonight, it's because I can’t face this much light.

In the book about being a mammal, she says humans turtle when life has too much red, not enough blue.

Red is tiger. Hawk. Gunshots. Periods. A fist through drywall by your face. Only for a limited time. Everything must go. Blue is your dog dreaming about running. Applause. Popsicles.
Singing in the car. Playdough. Orgasms. Couch naps.

If we have too much, too soon, too fast, too often we can start to think blue moments are red.

It is possible that blue and red are like yin and yang, feminine and masculine, in and out, off and on, pink and did you know before our grandmothers were born, pink was

considered too harsh for girls, that sunbleached red, girls were the color of moonlight, water made of crayon, blood before
leaving the body, when my mother was pregnant with me,

she had a dream about a baby in a blue room with a blue floor, blue walls, blue furniture. She woke up listening to Joni Mitchell, entirely convinced Blue was the name of her baby girl until my dad said, Okay,

but you realize her name would be Blue Barry? The nose of a drunk is red. The breast of a mother is blue. Red dirt. Blue river. Red noise. Blue lips. I coated my hair in henna to stain it cherry, like Angela Chase in My So-Called Life. Like plastic cups of punch.

Like zipper pressed into skin. I didn’t mean to say yes I mean no I mean do I mean something now? Is it over? How soon will I cease to exist? I only run when I feel trapped. I only scream when I can’t hide. Cry when I haven’t slept. They never tell you bodies could do most things

without you. My hair was lavender when I crawled into bed with my grandmother’s body for the last time. Our hearts, violets. Fingers twisted like wisteria vines
in the Spring.

Watch Lauren read this poem on Instagram.

© 2021 Lauren Brazzle Zuniga