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Sunday, April 8, 2018


 spilt it’s blood—on the wall 
brick / now is red-handed
ready for ink-up, copy-edit 
/ debt is red in books 

red soil is clay / -centered—
cherry / red-faced can be 
cherry pie, perhaps lip-
stick or slap / too red meat 

is bleu / in the squat glass 
red is italian / hearting or 
hating are gerund-red 
/ red is slash / between

my legs red is men-
strual / red between yours 
cd emancipate or un-
man / red spheres are :

mars, rubberball, clown-
nose / on nails red rusts 
or polishes but under—
that’s injury / horizoned

red breeds fire-locked 
seeds into maybe fields of 
red / sub-ocean one red 
species is dying, a coral called 

“precious” / rubies are crazed 
eyes / before performance
red feels like curtains / after—
roses / it's all the shame

withholding applause, a red 
act / how inside voices sound 
red with marriage / slaughter 
is a red response / and stop 

—the most red word / no 
parking and exit / some good 
apples are / pomegranates
furies, rages / I’ve never 

met a red-dressed angel 
though angels swing
a sword / red the wound
wound maker, and damned

righteous / red signals 
the killing time but not 
the no time preserved within 
each long coffin / in division

red is parsed away, then—
always red comes black
to the glass, mirroring
soul in scab / and so hearts 

are cut into dark ribbons
or rooms / without recourse 
red can flow in only one 
direction : throughout 

in districts of redlight 
our skin turns inwards
/ selves / red is red
balloon or fringe of vacant 

poppy throbbing among 
the red rest / you were
warned, red says, right
as everbloody reign 

1 comment:

Radish King said...

YES! YES! YES! This poem is pure muscle and ache. YES!
Rebecca of the Exclamation Points