What the Label Says

Under the store light it looked like dried blood

or the inside of a word

you've stopped using out loud.

I held it the way you hold a claim

you're no longer sure you can make—

small paper rectangle,

the name printed in a font

too cheerful for what the color actually is.

Vermillion. I said it once

to see if it still fit.

I thought of the year I painted

everything I owned some version of bold,

called it a statement,

then moved out and left it on the walls

for whoever came next.

I put the chip back on the rack.

Chose something called linen,

which is exactly what it looks like:

flat, cautious,

already decided.

The wall will be fine.

The wall does not care

what I almost chose.