Blue by Diane Slaney

Each Christmas, he’d change the baling twine
that held his trousers up to festive orange, but
this year he left it blue. He couldn’t find a clean
or hole-free jumper in the blanket box, so shut
the lid forever on its Nina Ricci dust and wore
instead the logo sweatshirt that she hated,
scrawled in blue. Squinting, he plucked a nose
hair on each day of advent, chalked off and feted
their demise with chocolate Santas bought for
kids carolling to the farm. They bleated their best
Bethlehem, expecting gold, getting blue. Vape
rings hanging in cold air said he’d failed the test,
forgotten those kind crinkles at the corner of her
eyes flirting like lost periwinkles on woodland
floors. His shut, he saw her eyelids flicker pain,
the cannula breaking blue on the back of her hand.


Date: 2016

By: Diane Slaney (19??-)

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