May 18, 2014

It Used To Be My Favorite Color by Molly McCormack

The garage door flakes and peels
lapis, hides your bike hanging
from a rafter by one deflated
wheel. Rust outlines the cobalt
frame like ocean boundaries
on a map. I should take it down
and sell it, but I don't want chain
grease on my hands. You used to lift
it in one motion, shoulders rising,
using gravity to set it down — a leg
swung over, perfectly balanced, one pedal
push, and you were gone. My cyan Schwinn
leans against the back wall, bored
from waiting for that trip to Vermont
to see peak-season colors. I finally tossed
the brochure. Last night, on cornflower
sheets, I dreamed of jays flying, sapphires
weighed them down.

Molly McCormack is a teacher, poet, musician and artist from Louisville, Kentucky. She enjoys exploring her creative side from many different directions. Her work was recently published in Jet Fuel Review and Literary Orphans. Molly is the managing editor of A NARROW FELLOW Journal of Poetry.


  1. Marvelous work, Molly. Thanks for letting me write the backstory.
    Maybe we'll see you in the Fall. Some Fall. Do come.

    (Barton VT)

  2. Lovely. I can see it all. Thank you.

  3. This tugged at my heart. Great images and great ending.