Andrea Krause

I Read the Color Blue Is Mostly an Illusion

like good water holds the distinct taste
of nothing, the color of whatever

shows up on the other side, an open window
to an unfair scale. The space bar inserts

distance by silence. It must be winter,
you can hear the train. The rain stops

when it wants. The old dog hunts
for squirrels he cannot see, smells

trust in a comfortable napkin. A hanky
monogrammed with expelled feelings.

Triangle-folded, devotion attacks like crows
feet, sharp-poking fine lines angular

around my eyes, drifting petals let go.
Put the pretty moons out on placemats.

Take one into your hands, a steering wheel
in the groove of ingrained stories, navigate a lap

around the table. At every place setting Corningware
cups & saucers, petty chipped porcelain,

sapphire floral pattern interrupted. Let us eat
with our bones

& shovels. Pour warm spiced
chai, eddy it dainty with milk, dulcet

spoonfuls of thyme honey. There you are,
cloudy on me like cheeks. I'm going to

pretend a blue flame is under this fog too.

Andrea Krause (she/her) lives in Portland, Oregon. Her work has been published in The Penn Review, Maudlin House, Kissing Dynamite, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter at @PNWPoetryFog and andreakrausewrites.com.