The name itself, a geography—
Turkish, spelled in French,
spoken as old traders spoke it,
on the road to Santa Fe.
Color of a lake embraced
by the Sangre de Cristo mountains.
Shades of blue and green that grace
stones on belts and necklaces.
Set in stamped sterling silver,
mosaiced into Zuni gods.
Color to invoke the sea
in a sea of shifting sand.
Turquoise on a door, a post,
a pickup truck, Fiesta Ware.
Wrapped up in a broomstick skirt.
On bolo ties as thunderbirds.
Sky-blue hue called Sleeping Beauty.
Bisbee turquoise, flecked with iron.
Stones from dry Carico Lake,
green and streaked with limonite.
Ocean-blue, fringed with silver
hammered in the shape of lace.
Velvet turquoise skirts that sway,
brushing boots of antelope.
Turquoise taste of blue-corn masa.
Salsa verde, turquoise green.
Strings of heishi, tied with leather,
spilled beads fine as peppercorns.
Sounds of songs, dusk and dawn.
Above the sage, a turquoise sky.
Turquoise—the color of your eyes
when you look at me and smile.
Catamaran Literary Reader, Summer 2025