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.
