By Sherry Luo
- The Green of a mango’s tip. Unripe, but soon to be quivering with sweetness. I am impatient for the green to fade, for the moment when I can sink my teeth into vibrant flesh. The speckled green of a mango reminds me of a poem. One in which a girl, likened to a mango, loses everything. Becomes nothing more than a lifeless pit covered by leathery, blackened skin. Unattractive. Unwanted. I can never see a mango the same way again.
- The Green of trees, the mild yet stern. Sleeves of pollen and cummberbunds of lichen. They do not dance. They shudder. In Fear. They know that their lives are as short as the ancient breaths they sigh, so unlike the happy, immortal grass. They applaud the end of the day when they are still alive. And I? I cry when I see. See their wooden corpses. But still I laugh, doggy paddling through the inky, dappled shadows borne from the undulating foliage. What light filters itself through the sieve of leaves is the softest. It gilds the velvet moss and bathes the irises.
- The Green of a clump of clovers, nestling toes of carrara marble. I do not care whose they are, only the miraculous existence of a spatter of color amongst the grey, dead veins. Defying laws of botany and silently thriving on stone. Rooftop gardens, rebellious acts against encroaching angles and grime. Colors fighting colors.
- The Green of vomit. An unwelcome green. Years of this inner turmoil suppressed, coming up as half-digested Chinese takeout. Sour jade flames in my throat, in my nose. I would gladly starve to keep from seeing and feeling this color again. And so instead I keep that drab poison in my stomach. A now rotten fruit filled with this sickly fluid, sealed shut by wrinkles. A stagnant sack of algal blooms. I have no need for a liver. I can no longer eat the way I used to. The way I want to.
- The Green of a Crayola marker on paper I do not know how old. Crude but true drawings of what are supposed to be trees but look like fluffy sour apple Dum Dums. A child’s innocent dream of wanting to save the world. A child whose cursive is better than her print. A phantom child I do not know but want to. An eternally unsatisfied curiosity.