Laura O'Neill had a
nosebleed and could not stop crying, could not stop making it worse.
In Montana everything above you sets itself on fire every night, it never disappoints.
One Thanksgiving morning my brother went out to chop wood for the stove and came back in coated with blood, his whole face. So much blood my mother thought it must be a joke. Blood in the carpet, round specks on the kitchen floor, on the cabinet doors, on her hands when she realized it was really happening.
I think her wearing that dress was a gift to me, though she would not have planned it that way. Harlot red but she was shy.
red red my crazy bloodshot eyes the mornings I woke up so sad and at the end of lost. Monster eyes that didn't make biological sense, no reason.
Red sweater woman seated to my left writing words I do not know yet.
My father forbade me to touch his red pens but I did, I stole them every chance I got.
Red is not something I ever see at work, I realize, not on children. Their uniforms are redless and they are forbidden nailpolish, lipstick, barrettes, nothing gaudy and wonderful.
Apples apples apples tomato tomato cherry the number of apples I ate as a child was ridiculous.
My skin is red in the glow of neon SAN FRANCISCO COFFEE, hands glow red.
the red things that were not cattails that grew in the ditches of Tara's field; we were so little.
When's the last time I saw my own blood?
the red shirt I'm afraid to wear for obvious reasons, you don't need me to tell you. Who wears red, anymore? No one I know, we are all too shy.
Last night I dreamed I had left the red shoes behind and a man I did not know returned them to me.
Red you could swim in, deep, encompassed in its own color like a jewel, like a really good sky.