Elegy for the Color Green

Night of bra straps cut from their brassieres,
of wet condoms lying across on the floor.
The smell of Minnesota come winter, inside a sink.
A useless paint brush bleeds pigments across the porcelain
tiles, its handle splattered green from the blues and yellows
lining my nailbeds.
I’ve learned even color goes bad in the light of the moon,
that the cold cannot be put away, inside a body.
That when a cat opens its mouth, its eyes glow brighter.
Our flesh throbs like veiny waves
against a distant shore, salty, warm, & hundreds of miles
from where we are.
In the clamor of the pipes I can almost hear
the birds and children screeching no, as they too
hold each other close.

Augusta was raised in Montana and Ohio. She's an MFA candidate at the University of Michigan.