Grape is The Last Color He Remembered

To Mateo, the Chicago boy who met 
his angels on February 21, 2018


It was the color that doesn't occur in rainbow.
The lack of beauty and sleep. The look of startled
face when moonlight turned away from the living. 
It was The Awakening of science that Throat is 
a bridge connecting life and death. The size 
six decades shorter than one's palm shattered 
the hearts of many wombs. At the count of nine 
or less, it was the color he remembered of carousel
and Santa Claus. How he was treated like a dull seed, 
sentenced to halt his existence, he would never 
understand why blood is no thicker than someone's 
patience. Why ignored the scampered sounds
of rats inside the walls? The high-pitched cries 
of cars? Theirs were the noise worth spanking. But, 
every sound his father heard was a screaming toddler.
A giggling doll, he was just being a boy when 
his father ended his innocence. He was just 
being a boy when he was wrapped like a present 
to voodoo gods so his father could sleep undisturbed. 
He was just being a boy when the color of grape 
twinkled upon the knife; his father's eyes 
were the opposite of delight. When he gifted him a 
death stare, he was two years old.

Ymatruz is the author of poetry book: The Coffee Cries Foul. She founded hoping to accommodate works of other poets and writers, anywhere in the world. She also writes about her blogging and migration experience on PoetsGig. Her motto: "By experience you learn. By embracing mistakes, you become a master of perfection."
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