Red

Immersed in a dark sunken den,

the deep brown couch envelops me,

and green shag carpet embraces my bare feet.

My parents are perched on another couch

against the far left wall. Blue light

illuminates their stony faces

as two monstrous sharks fight in the TV,

biting chunks from each other,

crimson swirling in the deep.

A red-haired girl lounges to my left:

a family friend but her name escapes me.

She scoots closer, and a warm surge

of affection pulses through me as

her soft head lands on my shoulder.

I glance at my parents and see them glaring.

They are alert to this sinful behavior, alert

to thorns in my mind, fleshy desires sprouting up.

Paranoia overpowers the girl's paralyzing warmth,

and so I stand, irritated, feverish.

I mutter goodnight and climb out of the den,

hoping the girl will follow, but

all that follows is her warm memory.

I enter the apartment of dark stone and ancient wood

where a tomahawk hangs like a trophy

collected from a defeated foe

above the mantel of a blazing fireplace.

My bare feet step over a patchwork of iron vents

through which dozens of small fires heat the room,

and one has ignited a long burgundy sock

draped over the back of a wooden chair.

The chair smolders also. I hesitate then stamp it out

and enter the adjoining bedroom, lifting and rustling

scarlet sheets, feeling a warmth in my heart rekindled.

But my older cousin appears in the doorway,

reminding me that we must share the bed,

and the flame is extinguished.

I stomp across the apartment, desperate for solitude,

and as if in answer, my cousin disappears

I undress and walk into the bathroom,

all checkered tiles and clinical white

and shower mirrored on floor and ceiling,

creating an infinite vertical shaft out of which

a black showerhead slithers like an inverted tulip.

I spot a large red bug in the corner.

I smile and it flutters its rosy wings

in a pattern as if to communicate,

and the edges of words form in my head

but my white-haired uncle barges in

and assumes I'm afraid of the bug, so he grabs

the delicate insect in his meaty hand

and thrusts it toward my face.

I flinch, so he throws it at me and I hurry

to brush it off and see its broken body

drop to the tiles drained of color.

One crooked wing shudders then stiffens forever.

My uncle laughs and slaps my back and booms,

See, isn't it better this way?

Face your fear and get it over with!

I halfheartedly agree but feel

a warm throbbing on my cheek

where the insect left its sweet poison.