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Chameleon

BY JOHN ARTHUR LEE, 2019

She layers on pigments without pause

and conceals the chroma of her original skin.

She hides the faded blues that clothed our town’s workers,

masks the mold greens that tarnished our old houses,

rolls over the myriad greys that peppered our patched roads,

and abandons all the colors of our shared history.

Her new friends’ tissue-paper hues cover her now.

But what about the metal-flake red and horizon blue of our bicycles?

The storm-green waves of our great lake?

The wet-silver fish we caught together?

The shale-grey rocks we skipped?

And what about the spectrum of light we summoned

when dreaming of heroines and magical fantasy worlds?

Are these too garish and embarrassing now?

Perhaps I know why past pigments frighten her.

Maybe, for her, childhood colors filter to faded indigo,

the hue of original harms and sorrows.

Some folks did treat her cruelly, after all.

Back when she dared to shine with prismatic light.

Perhaps holding fast to any hue hurts her.

Perhaps I’ll forgive her for layering on false chroma

and for letting others tell her which colors matter most.

Maybe I’ll understand one day—maybe.

For when I look beneath my layers,

I see indigo bruises too.