products of conception

would have,
should have
and could have been
a mixture complete
with your black hair,
tangled in
my dark roots,
the auburn tints
reflecting the sun
setting behind
hazel on black
deep-set eyes,
looking down
on your brown skin.

tall or short,
we'll never know,
right-handed or left,
snails and tails
of boy warrior or
everything nice,
in a spicy girl with
one bull's cheekbones,
and pensive smile,
falling shy of
a bainbridge brow
slightly furrowed;
all of this and more,
but nothing in store.

chromosomal madness,
an egg sac empty,
our souls' loss
of heart and beat,
no bigger
than a piece of
wild rice,
a jumping bean,
splashing into
the lime green sea
of the bathroom shag,
the doomed remains
flushed like
goldfish.

A long, long, long, long time ago (early 1990s), back when I took critique to be just plain criticism, a writer friend/or foe to my work (depending on how you look at it) did me a favor (a giant one he might add!!!) by reading a poem I had written.  He quickly pointed out all the “elements” he thought it lacked, in comparison of course to the many, many epic poems he wrote while in college in the 80s.  One of the elements he stated was missing was color.  Among other things, he said a poem had to have color or else … well, it was not worthy (I was not worthy, oh my garsh how I sucked!).  I’ve thought of that since then, and since learning the difference between a critique and an as*hole giving advice, but anyways, this one has color … all the way down to the goldfish.