For Red

How does every bandage feel like a metal

spoon pressed to your skin? Someone will

say, stop holding onto your knees so tight,

stop noticing the bend in light when it touches

lavender, or touches a wound. You know

that even if you were a giant, you’d mourn

lacking the ability to drown, your head so

much higher than the sea. I begged to choose

shallow waters, but wandered closer to

the buoy each time. I dreamed that we had

raspberry-mint tea on a weekend morning,

and it stained our blond wood table. Then

it kept on pouring, and we were dancing

in the red and pink. Red—with its hearts,

monsters, blood—there’s no continuity

there. I used to think about blue: blue

paint gathered in my sink after painting

the cabinets, blue fine-tipped pens. But

give me the mean red, or the beloved red,

or repellent red of love. Now the linoleum

looks like a vermillion sunset. Can we

sit here for a little bit of time? So I can watch

red sink into my lovely universe, my small sea.

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Aya Elizabeth lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review, Typishly, The Write Launch, Up The Staircase Quarterly, Habitat Magazine, Delmarva Review, Twyckenham Notes, Third Point Press, Bluestem, Zone 3, Chaleur Magazine, and Cagabi.