You –

yellow in 5 Acts,

yellow in division to make up a whole

– belong to the morning, shuffling in early hours

busy with errands of growth so, half asleep, I hear

the rustle of you working, know the outburst of your

shape, comfort in company of distance, company

that doesn’t speak.

Oh, you

– yellow as it exists in movies,

or in sunsets –

are the result of years-ago hours spent battling numbers

at a kitchen table, DIY projects: a gardened golden

summation sitting in my mum’s vase, on my bedroom

desk that was chosen, cleaned for me.

Oh –

yellow in last scene

yellow in prologue

– what was it like in the field where you were born?

How did it feel to raise your dark centre, round of

a moon, up to the sky? Did you rise from the earth –

in the mass of your comrades– knowing that you

would be mine?

 Here

– yellow of egg yolk

yellow of cut roots –

I get to look at you, see you alive.

Artwork by Rachel Jung.

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