after Mary Jo Bang

The winds swung open impenetrable,
wheat-colored walls, draining garish feathers.
Empty is locked silver,
as outside sprinkles melt upon grey
pigeon heads ecstatic in the sunset glow.
Empty is locked silver,
as outside snow-stained antlers burned
like candles on an iced birthday cake.

Oblivious to yellow, Memory,
wrapped in Byzantium slept soundly,
locked in the silver others left behind.

Dark red violet vines turn
green kites purple and maroon.
In this winter foliage, I see
Jimmy’s head of curly vines, fierce
as we waded in and breathed in evergreens,
quipped bright red cynicism for laughter,
drowning out calls to run in our freedom.

Pink fireworks,
like Hisaishi’s music,
are lighted antlers which wake Memory.

I once rejected Jimmy
so he came    all black    alone.
Two months later, he wanted me
to keep his pink secret     locked     in silver
So I hid      my dark red behind his pink,
smothering the small pebble in my hand.

Heart blossoms splendidly till wind blows out
hope and the mobile’s light blue lullabies
tucks love to sleep in warm Byzantium.