The pears once ripe and slick with rain now ferment on
the brick driveway. You unhooked the red gate, drove a
red car from my red house, the broken blood vessels on
your cheeks red with heat, my red, red, my palms
soaking in red, in red, awashed in light, red line across
my neck, fire fallen from your tongue, dragon avenged
red mouthed and frantic. I lead you down the chapel
chambers, the small window of my abandoned cell
webbed by spiders, you look away from me so I take
your jaw in my hand, repeating your name over again,
red, red, red, fragrant red, seed pulsating, red seeds
sticky in my open hand, your hand gripped tight on the
wheel, knuckles brimming so white they’re red. Is a
poem not red? Not alight with flame and torture? Not
scrying into the darkness, holy Easter revolting passion,
knees swollen under the heavy weight of wood and
palm leaves, trails of red under spring sky, autumnal
sky, red friday, red month, red ram. If not red, then
who? Then carnelian or rouge, if not red than who?
Who then whispers gentle verses into my ear, a single
sigh becomes an entire poem. The mouth of God
cavernous and welcoming of your hands, is this not
what bodies do? Hold together the red of water and
gore? One night, I pressed my full body weight onto
your heart, and from there, a flame emerged.
Tabernackle, stunning, you breathtaking, taker of
breath—a red votive burned all through the night, every
night, for purpose of worship, did you not? Did you not
worship me? So holy? How could you stop?
link to video
Nic Alea is a queer poet with fellowships from the Lambda Literary Foundation and the Wheeler Centre. Nic has work featured in journals such as Muzzle Magazine, Paris American, decomP, BOAAT, Crab Fat and others. Originally from California, they currently live in Narrm (Melbourne, Australia) where they are a library worker and a small-scale quilter.
