At the India Caravan

Drawn inside by the array of muted colors
purple-spotted vermillion
rust-magenta
that peculiar unyellow from the Far East, no
lemon or chrome but an enigmatic gold-beige
all printed in confusion with blurred figurings
crowded designs together in the window:
shirts skirts cloth
I touched a bedspread.

Familiar coarseness.
Then that smell of muskiness and sweet, of India
again around me–
I was in our room again
our safe warm room
with Indian spread
red rug
red curtains. . . .

Then the rest came back to me:
the red was you.

-Carol Brockfield
Harvest,
1980

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About Carol Foreman Brockfield

Poet in Medford, Oregon
This entry was posted in Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to At the India Caravan

  1. D Chadwell says:

    Wow, Carol. “unyellow” — this took me at first to a little shop in Bandon — the colors, the smells and I love how suddenly it became personal. Bravo!

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