New poem

Exact Science


The color blue sits alone,
feeling blue.

"Things should be better.
Things should be right.
Life should feel sweeter.
Something is wrong with me."

She takes a little pill made of
Half a drop of scarlet mixed with half a drop of cerise.
This, the doctors assure her, will help:
reduce her anxiety,
eliminate her melancholy.

And the world changes.
Or blue does. It's hard to say.
The sky becomes lavender.

The deep sea turns lilac.

And events unpredicted begin to come out of the purple.

Blue looks in the mirror.
Life is puzzling.
She sees herself, and she is . . . filled with swirling colors--
Primarily heliotrope.
The tiny crimson capsules have changed her color.

And now the question is: underneath it all, is she really still blue?
(Wait--underneath? When it comes from inside?)

Is her new color real?

Was her old color real?

Is there any difference, except for how she feels?
(Is there any other measure?)

And further, is this really all we are:
the sum total of a chemical equation?

And should this question frighten
or comfort?