You brought me to water and said, "This is blue."
And then I knew blue is the scent of always-new, a bright burble, the cool, soothing taste of living.
"Mama, this is blue," I said, as the sharpscales circled in the river, the sound of snapping traps that caught and tore and kept.
"Shhh, shh, shh," you said.
You brought me to grass and said, "This is green."
And then I knew green is the perfume of heady sap, the bitter-sweetness of growth.
"Mama, this is green," I said, as the wildfangs prowled in the foliage, the sound of shadow steps that sprung and slashed and crept.
"Shhh, shh, shh," you said.
"This is red," you said. Red: a scream, copper-stench, the taste of – death. Even then, I cried.
"Shhh, shh, shh," you said.
But nothing like now, with copper thick and death on my questioning tongue: I nudge your warmth; you do not move.
I cry, "Mama."
Mama.
You are red.
And then I knew blue is the scent of always-new, a bright burble, the cool, soothing taste of living.
"Mama, this is blue," I said, as the sharpscales circled in the river, the sound of snapping traps that caught and tore and kept.
"Shhh, shh, shh," you said.
You brought me to grass and said, "This is green."
And then I knew green is the perfume of heady sap, the bitter-sweetness of growth.
"Mama, this is green," I said, as the wildfangs prowled in the foliage, the sound of shadow steps that sprung and slashed and crept.
"Shhh, shh, shh," you said.
"This is red," you said. Red: a scream, copper-stench, the taste of – death. Even then, I cried.
"Shhh, shh, shh," you said.
But nothing like now, with copper thick and death on my questioning tongue: I nudge your warmth; you do not move.
I cry, "Mama."
Mama.
You are red.