Red Lines
Today I will write a poem
in red pen to see what images
find their way forward when
they might have hidden themselves
(too bloody, too adamant
for my usual black pen).
These words licking the page,
pulsing like a threat, like a scab,
like an ache behind the eyes.
Everything dragging on,
and everything cut
short.
The color red expects too much;
it insists, it insists on your
attention. Look at it waving
itself like a flag, wrapping itself
around you like bandages, like
capes, and dancing, flaunting
itself like a double dog dare.
Red is no good for writing.
There is nothing to be touched
there, nothing you would want
to hold to your face. Red
is difficult and unpleasant
and out of control.
No comments:
Post a Comment