We never understood
why they took green from us,
how they drained blue from the sky,
where they hid afternoon light.
Without color the air snapped shut,
the mountains crowded around us, trembled and
froze.
We grew used to
eating rock,
sleeping standing up,
breathing with our mouths closed.
And just when we
started to believe we
could stay flat forever,
they returned, washing flesh,
scrubbing bones.
When we stretched
our hands to fill
the space between us,
they fed our hunger with
one red word,
one red voice.