The house had nowhere to go.
I let it hold me.
Turning sixteen, I knew
Already that things keep on
Looking the same.
They don’t rub off,
I thought.

Closing my eyes
I started to feel the blue
Like little crosses.
The orange different,
Wanting to draw my fingers in.
It stuck.

The Crimea is a hard place.
I turned my eyes off.
The Ural Mountains’ grey sledges
Turning in on themselves,
Holding all hues.

I wanted to draw them out
Through my fingers.
Embroidery thread yellow
Is soft and smooth
Like gliding through air.

They are taking me to Moscow
Where the professors
Sort spools in their black bag.
I reach my hand inside.
“What color?” they ask.
I wonder if I should open my eyes.