Not only flowers, but colors, how creamy pastels
off a baby blanket collided with hues from jewels,
how the sun bleached certain objects
but made others vibrate, drenched in deep shades.
That’s what got her out of bed, moved her,
sent her into the desert heat to collect
nature’s garbage: skulls, dried brush,
abandoned birds’ nest. Up close, desert flowers
are cast in their own palette. Closer still,
the petals and the leaves could not be contained—
she had to share them. Georgia O’Keefe
had discovered primordial colors,
scorching shades that forced her back—
beyond her own time, before human time.
The desert forced her to see with eyes
that became prehistoric, focused only on
form and color, the light living in dead things.
Mary Christine Delea has a Ph.D. in English/Creative Writing, and is a former college professor. A native of Long Island, she now lives in Oregon. She is the author of one full-length book and three chapbooks, the most recent of which is Did I Mention There Was Gambling and Body Parts? from dancing girl press. Over 200 of her poems have been published, with the most recent and upcoming publications being in, among others, The Hollins Critic, Heron Tree, The Remington Review, and The Comstock Review. She also makes beaded jewelry, quilts, and mixed media art.
More work by Mary Christine Delea
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