posted Nov 10, 2015

To wrap ourselves in red     suddenly
seems essential     not as heat
as fire engine sirens     five-alarm
fucking     the kind that slams loneliness
up against        walls
rips off        its panties.

I don't want seduction        slinking around
inside my mind        draping appeal over an idea
of a drop dead body     wearing only a bow—
anticipation     a present
waiting                                to be opened.

In summer     it didn't matter
or anyway I didn't     notice the space
where roses would be     the gap
between sunup     and sundown
harmless     as a kid's crooked smile.

But now I need                       to fill drawers
with vermilion sweaters                    set wool socks
ablaze                                                             feel the old burn
of whiskey
                                     on its way

Lori Lamothe is the author of poetry books, Trace Elements, Diary in Irregular Ink, and Happily, and several chapbooks, including Ouija in Suburbia. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Blackbird, cream city review, Blue Lyra Review, Painted Bride Quarterly and elsewhere.

Lamothe’s poem “Ravens” also appears in this issue.