Christina Pacosz

At Highland Hospital

for Zelda Fitzgerald

Out the window
of the art room
     — a rose-colored sunset.

For a few moments
all the scattered, lonesome
shards fuse together,

fired at the extremities
with a coral blush.
                Or is it salmon leaping?

The horizon is pyrrhic
and luminous. Fuchsia,
red, magenta, mauve.

What name for such a color
from another world?
And what to call the ridge,

blue in the distance,
where night has bedded down
her life?