Thursday, May 05, 2005

Red Portrait

Written at a typewriter yesterday. The first half, too personal, has been cut.


If you let me,
I will invite you into my room, offer you tea
perhaps, and drape you in red silk scarves
and make you sit in the red velvet chair
in the corner while I sharpen my red pencil
and make a rough sketch--just the bare bones
of what you look like at this moment, now,
and now, as your eyes veer off somewhere
beyond nuance, past the red piano
and the vase of roses that exhale their reds
into the heavy air. You are looking past me now.
You are the lost lamb with the slaughtered mother,
crying, "Where is my mother?" even though it is clear
that she has abandoned you in death. You were like me,
and had no father. I pity you, child.
You are too innocent to hate.


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