Her Color Was White
Her color was white, but a healthy, strong white.
When she was pregnant she always wore white.
It was the way she felt, whole and pure again.
She was happiest when she was pregnant.
With her white umbrella she’d go walking in the rain.
Nothing could touch her, it was like a balm.
In her imaginary world this is the way it should always be.
All through the house she exuded the same sense of calm.
But being with child was one thing, having a child another.
Her color then was gray, a dull, unflattering gray.
When she was not pregnant she always wore gray.
It was the way she felt, diminished and sad again.
In this world, where imagination ran up against reality,
She wandered from room to room, a little mad again.
No one ever knew quite how bad it was, to what depths
Of despair she might sink. No one ever knew when
She might step over the edge again. She made threats
Of suicide that rattled everybody’s nerves.
For years she had one sure remedy,
But when she reached her late forties the curves
Of time came back to haunt and plague her.