Red — by Barbara De Franceschi

Everyone says it is my colour –

enhanced by olive skin, dark hair.

Silk woven or pure cotton,

the impact is the same,

there is spite in my aura,

pique itches, limbs snarl.

And yet, despite the distaste, I cannot resist

a good buy of coagulated folds.

Red bargains fly from my bedroom rafters,

(kicked and flicked in a frenzied strip-off)

some are enmeshed with dusty webs,

others have a newish furl. Odd looking banners/

floppy arms clutching at beams to avoid crucifixion,

frilly things with fasteners undone fornicate

with down-lights switched on in a scarlet haze.

I often think about taking a ladder to paint

each discarded item with national emblems –

circles and stars, vertical stripes,

half moons, lions upon shields.

Then at night I could listen to righteous voices

lag ceiling vents in a bloody ooze of anthems

while I am snared in crimson tulle.

(bdf)