The Blue I Give and the Blue I Withhold

I fed the last vat deep before the tide turns — indigo, nineteen and two, too steep, before the tide turns.

Marfa carries marigold to one bowl of stone and lets the second keep its grief, before the tide turns.

No clerk assigned her silence. No notice named her debt. She chose a shrine to love, and one to leave, before the tide turns.

The Petrel’s gone to Serevan with a stranger’s mail; I did not ask which letter wept, before the tide turns.

A dyer’s whole religion is what she will not sell — some blues are kept for no one’s hand, before the tide turns.

I have a fourth knot no one’s asked me for by name. I may die with it mine alone to keep, before the tide turns.

Tomorrow the almanac swears the year has turned already, felt before it’s seen — a haze, a hedge, before the tide turns.

Zara, they say the wise sail on the last good water. I dyed instead. I let the ship leave, before the tide turns.