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
down.
©
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.
