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.
WRITTEN BY KASEY L. FOWLER
ILLUSTRATION BY SARAH MCCROREY