( Y e l ) l o w



Yellow is a color of grime and frailty.


It resides among the bile and the phlegm.


I see it in the toilet bowl after I take a piss.


I see yellow on the Q-tip after weeks of forgetting to clean my ears.


I see it in pitchers in party towns, spilling streams of warm beer. 


I see yellow deep in the nails of the smoker that just brought out my cheese fries and lemonade.


I see it in the pimples on the face of a blonde girl wearing braids.


I see yellow on the teeth of my first kiss when I was a kid,

with the boy that had sour breath from a pancreas plagued with no insulin.


I see it in the yolk, sunny-side-up on my Waffle House plate;

from an egg laid by a hen that was forced to produce American breakfast at an unnatural pace.


I see yellow in the glow of a cheap prayer candle from the Dollar General, 

wrapped with a picture of a Saint, meant to spark repentance with both knees on the floor.


Sometimes, a similar yellow shows up in the lining of my panties.

In a yeasty puddle of discharge from an infection in my vagina.