Red

I know there were other colors in my early years—

yellow daisies wallpapering the kitchen walls,

blue fish swimming across my bedroom ceiling—

but what I remember most about my youth

are the many shades of red. Ruddy-red

my father’s cheeks as he bent to give me

a sip of beer. Crimson-red my mother’s face

stained by his palms. Burnt-red my brother’s ass

welted from the belt. Blood-red drops

on the bathroom floor. Fiery-red words

raging thru the Brooklyn project halls.

Even after we left New York, a red shadow followed us.

It shaded my Uncle’s eyes as he met us

in Los Angeles, the dark-red of depression,

the black-red of his future suicide. As I got older,

I began to crave red like chocolate, became lost

without it. I smeared it on high school noses

with my fists, raced thru suburban streets in

fire-red cars, chased women wearing hot-red

dresses, fought Asian-red enemies in Vietnam.

White days I lit on fire. Black nights

I opened the veins in my eyes.

red flames igniting every day I survived.