The Color of Waiting

I fell off my bike on Tuesday,

the kind of fall that's small,

embarrassing in every way,

standing before the fall.

By Wednesday it was purple,

angry dark and bright,

the kind of bruise that's certain

to demand a story's sight.

But by Friday the purple

had shifted into blue,

a shade that's more than mournful,

that looks like something new.

This particular blue sits

between the hurt and heal,

looks worse than what permits

the wound to be made real.

I angle my arm in the mirror,

the fluorescent light decides

what the shade could be clearer,

how the color hides and glides.

Gray or green or blue,

the bruise keeps changing form,

proof that something true

happened in the storm.

As long as it's still there,

as long as the blue remains,

I can hold and stare

and see that it's not in vain.

The body keeps the score,

won't let the bruise fade fast,

and I check it once more

to prove that something lasts.