Some time ago, a friend challenged me to write a “red” poem. I had a good time with it, and this was the result.
All dolled up in a ruby dress,
her fractured heart beating outside
her chest, she’s a living,
breathing Frida Kahlo painting.
She slips into scarlet espadrilles
and dances a bloody tango,
her lipsticked mouth puckering as if
she’s just eaten something tart.
Or wants to. Her henna hair is waving
like an SOS all over this dance hall.
God, it’s flaming hot in here.
Someone call the police, the fire department!
Don’t bother, she shrugs, feeling for a fever.
Just come closer. Pass me that cherry cola.
I’ll be your siren, your fire alarm,
your train track beacon,
your own personal red phone.