Flower-Bearer

My angel chooses to dress in black
And I swear love knew nothing fairer. 

I learned of abuse—
The first time I saw her. 
It made me sick to imagine,
Her back whipped, 
Her body bent
Doubled over from the scars.

Black is the color of mourning, they said.
I told them it didn’t matter—I loved her. 

We sat in the same place each day, 
Routine was part of her life and mine. 
But even more so—the rumors. 
My aunt, the one who didn’t gossip,
Told me—my angel was pregnant
With her father’s child, a neighbor’s,
And not pregnant at all.

Black is the color of sin, they said.
I told them it didn’t matter—I loved her. 

Violence didn’t need words
To make its existence known.
It was a language of its own.
A friend told me about her pain, 
Told me how my angel passed out
When the adult neighbor jammed
Himself into her, told her 
It’s what grown-ups do
And she still had some growing up to do.
My angel was okay, my friend told me.
Her name was in the victim box, 
And the police report gathered dust. 
But she is okay, he said. 
Or so she claimed.

Black is the color of lies, they said.
I told them it didn’t matter—I loved her. 

Yet, I chose to leave her. 
Years after being gone,
I crave to be with her
To touch her, to tell her I loved her.
I love her. 

Black is the color of grief, they said.
I told them, aye—it is. 

Though still clad in black, 
She has a new routine.
Each day she carries flowers—
The flower bearer to my name. 
The hues of her love
Protected from the outside.
Because black was safe, they said. 
It doesn’t let the light pass 
And so no eyes can see. 
But she sees and so my dreary grave, 
Gets some color each day. 
The colors of her love.

- Because black is colorful