Trans-Atlantic Blues • Carol Borzyskowski

Cerulean in the bathroom, cobalt in the kitchen:
Kobold is my daughter’s cat and I am blue
because she is worried, and lives eight thousand
miles away. Miles we try to erase by email or phone
lacking the tactile reassurance of family touch.
My daughter has incredible skin: warm and buttery, plush
velvet; but she doesn’t like to be stroked.

Vienna is gray in winter, but colored sky-blue
in memory. She waves at me from a window
holding her own daughter. Their laughter floats down
to the street, gathering in her husband’s blue eyes.
He unpacks the car and I wave back.
Slate buildings streaked in soot offer protection
turquoise eyed lions guard the door.

Here in Minnesota, home is protected by wild peacocks
whose screeches echo my thoughts as I watch
the cursor out beating its version of the blues
on my computer screen. Plans and heartbeats
sometimes end in a fine mist of red
between the legs and I am sorry my love.