Color Chart by Aurelie Sheehan


HOME ARCHIVE [Previous entry: "On Thirty Five by Keith Meatto"][Next entry: "Grind Grind Grind by Lesley Clayton"]
Color Chart by Aurelie Sheehan


black fingernail polish which doesn't end, unbending strands from my nail to the brush, a foot, two feet—a wonder and a stress; black shirt; black egg; black wyoming sky plunged into after the crack; blackout which is really white night storm, driving, then the warmth of a cartoon on the foot by foot box, only six then, brother a baby pain in the ass; black cats; brown eyes of brown-skinned blackguard; molasses; brown sex; under eyes under water under blankets purple explosions and stars and stream and then blank again and try to get back, very little purple, and then it is; a red quilt cover I made, nocturnal visits like some wanted crime scene; red never fully; red as a destination; dark blue only less vibrant; blue as the child's sweater and snap-up cowgirl shirt; blue as my mother's underwear, squares of pale nylon or silk such as girls don't wear nowadays or ever; blue as the room in the chateau, the blue of imminent, the blue of expansion; this blue; blue as her eyes, as the china handled by the woman who would die from that same hand; blue as the terrible bag; green this and that, green everything in the book, spellchecked and why so much inordinate green? delete the green, make the green toward again; green of absence; green of never; green of not anymore; green of fucked up bullshit; green of death; green of complaint; green howling when it comes up out of nowhere on a road through little green; green of elsewhere, and again; yellow funny dress photograph; fake look; fake pearls; yellow tablecloth; yellow background for the self-portrait, give it to me, I can be here and not this; the pale yellow of my room; the peach of the room I later painted; the room we painted together; the other room; the room my parents painted, the lost rooms; the complete; the taupe; the beige; the tan; the khaki pants, a bargain, my boyfriend's pants, too big, a tan clown with too-big twenty-five cent matching boots; the khaki of all that and the way it just disappeared afterward like—; the white pretty; the white I wore to my father's wedding, a suit; the white that is not at hospitals, actually; the white of the cat in the flame; the white of the page, and surrounding my hands; the white when you can't see; the white that is black; the white folded; the white fallen away; the white surrounding the iris, the confusion of white, its broken up clustering; the white of the airplane ticket slipped into a black pocket; the white of the broken ocean and the white bunny; and three other colors, pears, frames, coins, drinks; come closer so that I; this one, with this inside, to delete, to think on, to slip in, slicing.

Aurelie Sheehan is the author of two novels, History Lesson for Girls and The Anxiety of Everyday Objects, as well as a short story collection, Jack Kerouac Is Pregnant. She lives in Tucson.