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  • Christine Delea

Chromesthesia by Kelly R. Samuels

Updated: Mar 20, 2022


by Kelly R. Samuels

published in Summerset Review

Your voice, singing, calls up green,

green of the grasses bent

on that beach miles from here.

And, later, that one word spoken

in my ear ever so softly—blue of dusk

or storm clouds low over water.

Never yellow or orange or red, are you,

though I have seen those, too:

in the car horn's blare, wail of saxophone,

screech of hawk. The spectrum, yes, mine,

when I wish for the one sense. Even if blindfolded,

I see the hue, there, hovering.

And yes, I have tried: I have worked at less

being offered. Forgive me.

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