Cigarettes and Blue Dye, No Bullets

for Marie Manilla

We sink our hands into pools of color, where
inflated chemicals create panels for
the blue to rise. At breaks, we shake our hands

hue free under scalding

water, we pulse the dye beyond ourselves and
out of the fiber and thin lines of our skin.
We don't bother with lunch, but pull out cigarettes

and light them on the line.

Filing out for breaks, we bathe in streams of fresh light
and compare the clash of tint under our nails.
Someone coughs, hands shake, we continue to smoke,

ingest tar and dyes

and never think about the plans that once ruled this air,
made us believe we could leave this West Virginia
town. Right now is who and what we are--older now,

racked by pink or

orange piss, coffee-colored spit, and a large crayon box
of colors all over our hands, wrists and arms.
We don't need bar fights with razors or guns; we

smoke, we dye, we die.

copyright 2002 Christine Delea