Violets are crushed in a petri-dish, and liquid is added to them,
you take your pinkie finger and dip it in, smearing the brownish purple liquid on a piece of paper you crushed into a ball
making the art you can with what you have
and your fingers grasp around the edges of the plastic,
it is turning some color you didn’t know existed, and you taste it expecting it to be sweet
but it is bitter
crawl
your elbows scraping the ground, shielding you face from the other faces
they are always looking
and you grimace
where is this enemy? you wonder. where is the enemy we were supposed to have
haggard men-boys and girl-children and steely eyes and
you left
made your chemicals and put them in pouches and let them go from the tops of trees and on the bottoms of planes.
you told your wife, (soft hair, so soft) that you wanted to make her
a perfume and would
name it after the child she lost while you were gone crawling on the grounds and getting your elbows dirty and trying to keep you hands clean.