Blue
May Swenson

Blue, but you are Rose, too,
and buttermilk, but with blood

dots showing through.

A little salty your white

nape boy-wide.  Glinting hairs

shoot back of your ears' Rose

that tongues like to feel

the maze of, slip into the funnel,

tell a thunder-whisper to.

When I kiss, your eyes' straight

lashes down crisp go like doll's

blond straws.  Glazed iris Roses,

your lids unclose to Blue-ringed

targets, their dark sheen-spokes

almost green.  I sink in Blue-

black Rose-heart holes until you 

blink. Pink lips, the serrate

folds taste smooth, and Rosehip-

round, the centre bud I suck.

I milknip your two Blue-skeined

blown Rose beauties, too, to sniff

their berries' blood, up stiff

pink tips.  You're white in 

patches, only mostly Rose,

buckskin and salty, speckled 

like a sky.  I love your spots,

your white neck, Rose, your hair's

wild straw splash, silk pools 

for your ears.  But where white

spouts out, spills on your brow

to clear eyepools, wheel shafts

of light, Rose, you are Blue.