Crimson

It is hard.

This bed of dense cellulose,

flaked

with red scars.

 

How glorious!

To look down,

at your own three fingers

as they falter.

Sunlight can no longer satiate their famine.


A thousand latent veins

surface

and weave into meshes,


Battle: Red vs. Green

(the winner declared ante bellum,

accepted,

history.)


So your skin shrivels up,

crimson chokes you,

crawls in, tugs

at your arms, your heart.

Now you are a flame.


“I am radiant!”


some last thoughts?

etched on the stomates of your flesh.

As you exhale and let go, freefalling

in forty degrees cold

Sweet darling landing on the grass, you take away

a tropical girl’s breathe.


She freezes

Her eyes see New England heaven.






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