bloody moon swells over hill street & it’s red & red & red.
sky wilts like flayed pig skin & it’s red.
air rises thick & sweet & slippery & it’s red like hard candy.
peppermint stripes in cellophane.
a girl lives on cedar lane in the basin of a kettle stained scarlet.
the motorcycles spit & the corn crows cough & the streetlamps
always shake all scratched & yellow. grandma’s rose wallpaper is
peeling & april is a storm.
mosquitoes buzz in pools of honey on granite & cigarette smoke
curls from the sewers. again & again & again the
sky glows red in the night & again the girl watches. listens. interstate
ripping through alleyways & december soup gone cold.
sun like a wailing baby. sun like a bloated cantaloupe, sun like
a quarter crushed under a rainboot, she says. not a metaphor anymore,
not some great big belly of some great big beast. just red.
she sees another girl in the storefront window in may & the
fat skin on her cheek billows raw & flushed & pink. she bites
her bruised gums. (purple & purple & purple). bush plane barrels overhead
& the city air stinks of salted braise & chicken broth.
the june fireflies are humming elegies in sticky rain. they tell
her it’s a sin & the girl is a ghost. teetering a line. here & there.
when you say one word over & over & over
again it looses its meaning.
so she shouts. she screams. redredredredredredredredred. dull red. bright red. red like cheeks. red like blood.
red like how they say it’s a sin. red like home.
red like how spring comes again & again & again (de nuevo, mi amor).
red like how everything goes back to where it comes from someday.
perhaps into the belly of some great big beast.