mackerel sky

They say it’s not black and white, but grey.

I want that grey instead of white-hot, instead of black as dead earth: my boy's seizures colored both.

And I have been looking for a long time.

I am searching for grey that is smooth river stone, mackerel sky. Even the pure white of soft wind would do.

I hide the black—inside—that sometimes spews out swift red swathes.

I want the white of ocean foam, sand dollar, my boy’s smile, not the blinding white scorch of relentless electric screams.

I am looking for the grey that lingers, soft like a ribbon ... 

a dream ... smoke.

My white is thin and brittle, chipped, the black rottenness glistening beneath—stinking, putrid.

Give me simple grey—easy on my mind’s eye—give me mackerel sky.

photo by Michael Kolster