Red Is the Color
of Regret
In the absolute silence
of a midnight house
I paint my toenails red
the color of matador
fanning outward and bleeding
seeping its way across the
ridged nail
the askew pinky toe
the soft pulp of cuticle
the red of it frightens me
cocking my head I turn
a constant ear to stairwell
upstairs my infant sleeps
comfort found in still
air and quiet child,
my eyes snap back
hawk like precise
I peck again at my feathers
fawning, preening
for no one
like the quiet flush of red
paint
slashed across the Braille of my
feet
you flash bright, a sudden
anguish of the arteries
the vacant halls inside my chest
thud suddenly with your clumsy
footsteps
you kick over a lamp
with heavy boot
stumble your way into the inside
of the inside of me
nudge the gap between my sternum
you crack open my breastplate
poke around with a capricious
thumb
the astuteness of a poet
the sterility of a surgeon
the unwavering ferocity of a
star-like lover
fucking our way across the murky
linen
of my sleigh-shaped bed
my toes are painted spectacular,
lacquered red and pristine
I hang them out to dry
fan them
admire their ambulance-wail hue
a song you will never hear
for you have zippered your
suitcase
buttoned your trousers
spent all the time allowable
a hitchhiker can spare
writing your poem
I am your dusty rumination
a Mona Lisa muse forgotten
accents of red begonia
cupping my ear
scenting my hair
I live here
a sleeping baby breathes
upstairs in our midnight house
colored quiet
an antiquity of still life
sepia misplaced postcard
aged and water-damaged
trapped in the back pocket of
your vagabond blue jeans
dusty
red snapdragons
dot our windowsill
wave in the breeze
BACK
NEX