Love Is Mustard Yellow
Patrick G. Roland
A pastor gave me a book on love.
I said I already knew.
My grandfather told me love is a color.
His voice lived in the air,
sayings hung in the branches:
“Ya don’t gift what ya don’t love.”
I carried them like walnuts,
slipped them into Valentine’s cards.
Grandma once swaddled me
in the saffron blanket she made
for their wedding.
It scratched like forsythia, so she peeled it off,
gave me a softer, purple one of her own.
In the fields, Grandpa carried a copper cup,
our makeshift vase.
He’d groan in pain as we knelt in the grass,
plucking buttercups, dandelions,
violets with heart-shaped leaves.
“I like the purple ones,” he said,
“but love’s the flower you don’t keep.”
After he died, the field grew reckless.
I mowed it flat with his yellow Cub Cadet,
spared the violets.
Brought Grandma his tarnished cup,
purple shades overflowing.
“My favorite,” she smiled.
“I never liked the yellow ones,
but your grandfather did.”
I gazed at dull copper,
purple dripping down my hands.
The stems curled like his fragile fingers.
Love isn’t what you keep,
but what stains you,
mustard yellow bleeding into the field,
searing my eyes,
splitting me open,
spilling through my chest.
Patrick G. Roland
A pastor gave me a book on love.
I said I already knew.
My grandfather told me love is a color.
His voice lived in the air,
sayings hung in the branches:
“Ya don’t gift what ya don’t love.”
I carried them like walnuts,
slipped them into Valentine’s cards.
Grandma once swaddled me
in the saffron blanket she made
for their wedding.
It scratched like forsythia, so she peeled it off,
gave me a softer, purple one of her own.
In the fields, Grandpa carried a copper cup,
our makeshift vase.
He’d groan in pain as we knelt in the grass,
plucking buttercups, dandelions,
violets with heart-shaped leaves.
“I like the purple ones,” he said,
“but love’s the flower you don’t keep.”
After he died, the field grew reckless.
I mowed it flat with his yellow Cub Cadet,
spared the violets.
Brought Grandma his tarnished cup,
purple shades overflowing.
“My favorite,” she smiled.
“I never liked the yellow ones,
but your grandfather did.”
I gazed at dull copper,
purple dripping down my hands.
The stems curled like his fragile fingers.
Love isn’t what you keep,
but what stains you,
mustard yellow bleeding into the field,
searing my eyes,
splitting me open,
spilling through my chest.