Suppose You Want to Leave Your Life but Instead You Go Back into It and It Is Red
Your red life runs a river through you—it opens the ocean of your body with a single shard of grass, a red blade grown in Spain, and desirous of slow, slow shadows, like one first cast across you, the shadow that sung you out of your own skin.
Shadows here are made of windows that never open, of birds painted maroon, but you want shadows made of glass, shadows that will burn this river out of you.
In your red life you’ve never seen the ocean. You’ve never felt your own wrists. You’ve never looked at the sky.
In your red life, a handsome man taps at your door. He has dark hair and skin, leans in, whiskey-singed, whispers- I am going to make love to you like a real Spaniard.
The real Spaniard love-making is everything you’d imagined.
The real Spaniard asks to live in your red life with you and the wind whistles and the moon unhinges.
You tell the Spaniard you are waiting for a cowboy with a real nice haircut and he looks out the window, makes the strong, dark coffee like every other morning- only this time he puts on his extra large hands first.
The real Spaniard spends the rest of the day in the red wind. You look out the window and he is singing into his hands. You look out the window and he is holding up the sky.
One night, you play a blue violin and the Spaniard says come back to bed but you are cutting a thousand red ribbons into stars and the Spaniard says come back to bed but the moon is slicing you in half and you look at your body and it is an unknit glove, and you look at your body and it is a room you are running out of.
Some days, it’s like you’ve captured the desert stars. Others, you can feel the antelope losing hope. You wake up and watch the air fall apart.
Lauren Bledsoe has lived in both California and Utah. She writes poems and makes pictures.