the red trilogy: a three-part story in verses
>> Tuesday, July 27, 2010
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.
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.
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