Men Say Brown

On the radio this morning: The average woman knows

275 colors—and men know eight. Women say coffee,

mocha, copper, cinnamon, taupe. Men say brown.

Women know an Amazon of colors I might have said

were green, an Antarctica of whites, oceans of colors

I'd stupidly call blue, fields of color, with flowers in them

I would have said were red.

From women, I've learned to love the browns,

the earths, the dusts, the clays, the soft colors, the colors

brought out from the mines, hardened ones,

hardened in fires I would call red; the colors of the furies;

the reconciling colors of the cooling ash.

By myself I know the evening colors when the sky goes

from blue to another blue to black—although it's a lonely,

whitish black sometimes,

like the color of sleep—

the way dreams are lit by the light that's thrown

from nowhere on the things you find in them. Last night

there was a turtle, I would say it was brown or green,

or it was a snake, mottled, a kind of grey, disguised

as a turtle, red spots as if painted on the shell,

a palish greenish underside—vulnerable, alone

swimming in water I would say was colorless.

I woke to the pale colors of the morning—no one

has a name for those: the white-rose white you see

through the white of the curtains on the window,

the milks, the creams, the cream a galactic swirl

before it turns to brown when your wife stirs it in the coffee,

the faint drying oval on the silver of the spoon.