Nothing remains

but the color. The dress

was yellow, that much

is certain, and now sun

crowds the mouth and covers

the hands like mittens.

The memory has always been

spotty and pocks dot

what’s left of the image—

caramel-salt, tan as postcard sand,

a scrape of grain under

the tongue. Somebody tall

has that hand. His fist fits right

around it. Nothing remains

but the metal purse-clasp

banging the hip. Like zipping

fingernails along a screen door,

the little peals

multiplying. The movie called

yellow runs back, but only so—

then sticks in the gears. An old-

time film projector on fire,

film cracking black oil bubbles,

all the faces running off.

All that remains is the color

yellow, that much is certain.

It’s in the attic, or closet,

or photographs and somebody wants

to say, but can’t, that it still has

a soapy, steel-wool smell about it.

Letitia Trent (OH)  is a graduate student at the Ohio State University. Her work has appeared in MiPOesias, 42opus, Shampoo, and The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel anthology. She is a co-editor of 21 Stars Review.