The Reflection Pool

Where I have lived,
the open space of desire is Red.
The desert laid out before me,
a human figure, in suggestions
of Red,
of rose,
of pink,
of scarlet,
of magenta,
of salmon,
of flesh.

The pigments are bathing in light,
delicious light,
delectable light.
The pallete of erosion is hues of Red,
is running Red water, Red river,
my own blood flowing with the current;
my devotion cascades Red.

This landscape can be Read,
flight of words,
flight of feathers,
Red-winged Blackbirds are flocking
to the river in Spring. Perched on
cattails, they squawk and squawk;
in the sun’s light, they glisten.

Native tongues.
Adopted tongues.
I want to converse in the language of the
desert, to translate this landscape
of Red into an expression of heat that
quickens the heart and gives courage
to silence, the silence that screams.

I yearn to master the language of Red,
its dialect of obsession.

Red cries out for the body.
Open the veins and they bleed Red.

Red is hot with rage,
too hot to touch,
a burn of the hand, quick to destroy.

I know my anger as lightning,
its searing power capable
of blistering skin. The reactionary
stance of Red lacks wisdom.
It hurts more than heals.
To fathom Red is to witness devastation.