I see why love is red.

I can’t tell you.

But last night, you entered my chest

for play, some kind of game, like ‘Operation’

and then I couldn’t sleep

I jolted – shivered – jerked – quirked,

now my eyes don’t close

and my body is a pulse,

you tiptoed across my ribcage,

leaving foot prints enlaced by landmines,

you slept on my lungs,

short wired my arteries,

you clipped the circuits of my heart -

exhilarated and frightened,

because you knotted my red and blue wires,

now, I sleep hugging my chest

- Cradling a bomb –

overnight my skin pixilated into a fragile shell

under the crevices, the patterns of your fingers:

I must trust your touch

despite your palms of cold metal,

your lips of iron strength,

You kiss me! You kiss me! You kiss me!

My red heart, ugh! -

My scarlet lips, ah!

My rouge blush, wow!

My ruby underwear –

Yes! Yes! Yes!

My bloody womanhood, its fruitfulness –

The best! The best! The best!

This – is – our – rainbowww!

And I could burst,

and if we break…

I will bleed the same colour,

Painting this passion across the walls,

scattered and splattered – a child’s finger painting,

So, now I see why love is red…

because ‘falling’ is really falling

and who knows how hard or close this ground is.

broken heartdangerdisasterexcitementlovepainredthrillvulnerableworry

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Comments

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Graham Sherwood

Wed 27th Sep 2017 09:55

I've spent the weekend on and off reading the letters of Sylvia Plath to Ted Hughes and wonder if you have too.

This is so similarly redolent of her totally consumed love for TH to an almost suicidal degree (sadly prophetic for her).

I hope this is autobiographical Alexandra. To be able to be bursting with this sort of fervour is a wonderful state.

The analogy of cradling a bomb is excellent.

* well done on getting a jazz poem into the chosen list

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