“Name that color” by Sarah McCurry

If we are what we eat I became
that color: drop or two lighter
than blood, drop
or two of color unreal

Always that same color
of a little unwell, color my lips
when they speak/when they
don’t, color my nipples grew more of
years before I could say


of that color dripping down lids
each time we moved buckets
after buckets—the same
plugging in from place
to place—poofing
all over my mother’s
jeaned thighs

That something color
not quite right
forearms, fingers
dipped into
the tin
she took her
strokes from
The rooms she painted me
into: shrinking with each stroke

House still in boxes, smell rushing
down stairs, rising up
my ankles my calves
my waist




Sarah Kai Neal McCurry received her MFA in Poetry Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. Her poems appear in: North American Review, Sinister Wisdom, Wilde, Stone Highway Review, The Ilanot Review, Anthem Journal, Almost Five Quarterly, Hoot, Wicked Alice and elsewhere. Her chapbook Speak So It Anchors You is forthcoming in 2016. She teaches writing workshops for mental health consumers and resides outside Nashville, TN with her wife Sharon, four dogs and two cats.


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