The Color of Desire
Red dresses hang in closets wondering when they'll be worn again,
but her shoulders are too tight and toughened to glide a strap across:
red wine half drank, one untouched plate of ravioli in white sauce,
a newborn child screams next door, a tapered candle burnt to the end.
Red lights outside flash green and back, and, before she can make a move,
she is 40 and calls it 80 and doesn't open the blinds:
red sunsets, kisses at the nape of the neck, when a lover finds
your hand in the dark. She fights to forget some things a dress can't soothe.