redbaby

she sits, an awkward configuration at our lunch table,

knee pressed like gauze into her stomach and jaw set stiff.

I would like, she says, to go home. And we laugh a sweet sorry.

And now we're sat on the side of the ballroom,

and she slips off her heel, a steely, towering thing,

and the back of her heel is only a little bit pulpy, so I wince

and then we get up to dance.

And now, heel propped up against the wall of the shower,

shaving cream, and a bloody knee, and a bloody ankle,

we watch it bead up like watercolor, curious and indifferent.

we've got a lot of paint inside of us,

thicker skin to grin and bear but easy bleeders, better painters.

Creation is a bloody affair, and so too is emergence from the red cradle,

are you sure? She asks, watching her sister cradle the babe,

the plug having been pulled from her bathtub, paint tin, she drains.

Yes, says the doctor.

But women's bodies are persuasive things.

They talk, just like your dog does,

it's more fun to have a conversation with them when they talk too,

so they do.

So he changes his mind

not that it matters, still points his finger at the body on her bed.