How Yellow Tastes
My mother said yellow can't taste,
but “how do you know,” I asked,
like I always did, “how do you know,”
as if she answered it would be ridiculous.
Ridiculous—to say that yellow can't taste,
to say that its tongue is too far back in its mouth or
its taste buds have burnt out with age or—ignoramuses—
to say that yellow has no tongue, that
it evolved beyond taste (last known taste of yellow
buried with Queen Hatshepsut, Egypt, 1457 B.C.).
I've tasted yellow, felt the sweet shock of
(wait for it)
God's-eye-in-mine,
petrified in sunlight until
the last rays are crisp on the edges (375º, 30 minutes),
set to cool on the window sill,
no screen.
That, I said to Mother, is
how yellow tastes.
—Esther Pearson, Richfield, MN
is a Minnesota native who loves the change of seasons, chocolate labradors, and running in the rain. She is a poet and writer who finds her inspiration in children's books, startling art, and quirky people.