Because of Prince, it’s everywhere today.
Doctor’s lilac shirt. Her receptionist’s lavender tie.
Chalked bar signs along Pine and Spruce.
Niagara. NASA’s Twitter. The whole world’s bruised.
And listen, I’ve been feeling lost.
Been feeling like spring can’t win
me over. Been wearing yellow every damn day
to say I’m honey. I’m sun. I’m lying.
So when I stride into Hot Topic, the sweet
vegan tattooed faux lumberjack at the register
looks 12, but I smile into his green eyes anyway,
elbows on counter. He flirts, as if
I’m 18 and glittered. I flirt back.
The whole scene is goth joke giggles
and nonsense until he drops me off
at the hair dyes, and I glimpse it: Purple Rain.
Purple Rain’s now splattered in the sink,
squiggled on my breast, and I don’t know
if I’ll notice a single flower tomorrow,
but fuck it: my hair will be singing.
Darla Himeles is a Pushcart Prize–nominated poet whose poems have recently appeared in Women's Review of Books
, Pittsburgh Poetry Review
WomenArts Quarterly Journal
, and New Ohio Review
. She holds an AB in English
from Bryn Mawr College and an MFA in poetry and poetry in translation from Drew University.
An assistant editor at The Stillwater Review
, Darla is currently pursuing a PhD in American Literature at Temple University.
more by Darla Himeles:
Ode to Unlocked Windows