Purple
Darla Himeles
  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 BooksPittsburgh Poetry ReviewWomenArts 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
Hushed