Just Another Crayon in the Box

Flesh

We have a running argument—he says
the English language has too many words
for the same thing. Not nearly enough,
I say, with an indignant huff. He wants
clarity in an eight-color box of crayons. I
want one hundred twenty-eight
with sixteen shades of “Flesh.” Who decided
“Flesh” was skin like Silly Putty, pinkish
beige, not summergold, or cherry wood,
or native jory soil. Not the blushed clotted cream
of bridal rose or grandmother-gray with silver -
flecks. Not pulsing deep, copper-scented,
iron-oxide red of a bull’s heartblood 
spilling from its corded neck as its knees buckle. 
Not kalamata, not sun-ripened fig. Just 
Silly Putty-pink.