the red trilogy: a three-part story in verses

the rape of red

the room reeks of semen,

cigarette and guilt.

the last she shrugs off

hastily. she fumbles with

the buttons, one eye

on the door while a foot

searches for the pair

but finds her ring instead.

she steals a last look at

the bed, sighs and smiles

and with fluid steps and

feverish skin she flies out

the door, knocking the

number 7 down, leaving a

swinging letter L but

not a sound is heard.

she falters into the house

that seems a stranger's,

smaller and decaying.

the jutting hips ebb

and the fire in her breast

snuffs and comes a

lonely song in her head,

a requiem for the dead.

midnight finds them on the

empty bed, she's dreaming

of burning his house down

while he stares at the back

of her head thinking,

tomorrow he will

paint the walls

red.

red fades to red

she stares into the wine 
glass lost in the 
swirling and flushed 
dark brew. you look 
wonderful he says. he 
always says that, she 
is certain, to dismiss 
the dead air as if

it still makes her 
uncomfortable, the dead 
air. dead air is one of 
the many dead things 
she has learned to live 
with. she laughs at the 
thought. he smiles. life 
is good he reflects. time

settles into a funeral 
march and she is further 
away. far from the soft 
voices and the clinks of
wedding bands against 
glass. she is back in that
cafe where she met him
while living out her passing.




midnight finds them on the 
empty bed, he's dreaming 
of summers in the country
while she stares at the 
back of his head thinking,
tomorrow she will
wear something
red.

man woman red

it's been two winters since 

he last saw her red dress 

hanging forlornly in her 

spot in the closet. he thought 

she'd forsaken it too when 

he came home to a bereaved 

space, orphaned, not even

a letter to collect his tears.

a smile escapes and rests 

on his face as he recognizes 

a hint of light for his fading 

heart. he thinks, at last, an end 

to dreams of shadowing 

her shadow, only a hint is left

of a love that did not endure,

it's time that he breathes again. 

she still sees his face when she 

dreams in sepia or beholds

the mist lift at the break of

dawn. but the taste of the

pain is diminished every

time, throb by throb. at last 

forgiveness will come, more 

ardently than forgetting.

midnight finds them on their

empty beds, wide awake and

far away. he is spying on sea

gulls taking to the sky, grey

against the sun. she is

gathering, by the 

river, wild roses

red.

.

Note: The original poem's (the rape of red), ahem, success caused me to write the prequel (red fades to red) and the sequel (man woman red). I guess everybody wants a start and an ending to every story, prose or otherwise.