Colorblind, it's still red

My love is color
blind, a specialist said there's hopeful
possibility he can see some shades,
maybe yellow.
we left brimming and
I bought marigolds
for three months, hoping he would
say, I see.

My love is color
blind, is that a new sweater
he asks. I nod, I watch his
lips move, his eyes narrow. He
licks his lips, what color is it?
A game we play, trading
a question for a question, I answer
what does it look like?

He squints again at the
cords pulled into rows of
gray, to him, pale, to him
licking his lips and pulling his forehead
into a frown, I relent.
I relent, mustard yellow, I say, because
we've never quite given up.

My love is color
blind, his shoulders relax.
Ah, I can see it now,
if his words were a color
if his words were a shade he
could see, I would not
wish it.

And what is yellow again,
I ask, hoping he will remember.

The color of the taste of
soft bananas, not the
green of ones unready? I nod, he settles down
with his bowl of cereal and the
paper. It's a yellow bowl,
I want to say.

In my dreams we swim off the
coast, get caught under
a rainbow. Is this what you see all the
time? He asks me, and I cannot
taste anything but the hollow
swelling and curving out of
my heart. Too long I had forgotten
it had a hue.

His chair squeaks. We
move on pretending, tomorrow, maybe.
My love is colorblind, the heart -
it's still red, the flowers on the
table, are still
marigolds.

poetic fiction.