Tonight's Poet Corner: Red

Red
by Belinda Roddie

The ketchup bottle on the table,
left untouched as we ate.
The stardust of a scab
lingering
under your left nostril.

The frame of your great-grandfather's
painting of a ship whose captain
steered it straight into Nowhere.

Were the walls always this color?
And the floors, too?
And if it was meant to signify
passion, why were we too scared
to actually succumb to the heat?

I wore a crimson shirt that was
the hue of your lipstick,
which only lightly touched
my sanguine cheek.

At last, we felt our pulses,
and everything lit up

like soft
photosynthesis.