The Red
Always loved shades of red, which anyone can tell
from the cover of my phone, the color of my tumbler
the glean of my handbag, the lint of my sweater,
and the mark of my lipstick on the rim of my coffee.
Gazed in awe at variegated hues of the West,
as the sorcerer bade adieu—
vermilion bruised with gold to a divine bronze.
the tinge of strawberries fresh from the farm,
and the crimson of tomatoes ripened in the sun.
Cherished the scarlet of the solitary ritual rose,
you got for me on Valentines—
just one half-opened bud to represent the heart,
you betrothed to me one more time.
The red that I detested, the tint that made me shiver
was the wound left on my porch,
by the baby bird which fell from the nest in the corner,
maybe sometime under the cloak of last night.
Stared at the ball of flesh with horror and disbelief!
Unable to discern, unable to stir, I stood—
rooted to the cement,
with stumps made of oak wood.
Those beads of eyes permanently shut,
the rawness of lines of claws,
the buds of nascent wings
which could not catch wind,
the hint of a beak that never held a twig.
Slowly I took a step back
to allow her kin to pay homage
no ma, no pa came fluttering to caress the baby
as I kept vigil from my window.
waited till noon and then decided it was time
lest the innocence be torn apart and gobbled by a hawk.
The tiny pink blob, to Earth I returned,
but left the red for the sky to stare;
to shame the clouds to rain,
and wash the sinned stain—
to let nature take care of its own.
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