Sometimes one thing triggers a memory
A thin tripwire that triggers an explosion
A baguette, or red wine, Boston...
And Black
Black will never be funerals and death .
Black is a midriff held sleekly tight
Lace ending on pale chest or thigh
An exotic bird that unfurls black wings
To swoop and soar and dive
Exhilarating and wonderful.
But I don't have space for the bird to fly
I need to shut it away
In the cage of memory, wings folded
Black becomes just a colour again
And reality is... Gray.
