Isaura Ren

surface tension

CW: implied physical abuse and self-harm

When we were kids,
            they told us blood

ran blue inside the body. How
            easily we believed what-

ever sounded right. How little
            we still understand

of light. How we looked,
            then, to crooks of arms

and marveled at indigo rivers,
            each soft wrist and its

traces. Only in the breaching

            could their colors ever

change. Our swollen dam held firm
            at first. Behind it, a feast

for mosquitoes. A riot of hues
            absorbed in that thick

swarm, just one refracted. Blue
            as his uniform, new

as a bruise navying before it
            yellows, less a picture

than an impression. Reproduction
            softens the blow, buffs away

those telling edges. Only the smoothest
            stones can skim the pond without

detection. Its face, that perfect mirror,
            betrays no impact. Quiet.

Night purples. Below, minnows
            throb like the stars.