Heated Color

Heated Color
by Sondra Kay Lankford
Ignore the scrape of scales on the sidewalk.
Help.
It’s all gonna bleed out neat and nice,
and the linens will smell soft again;
he can hit the road – truck full of loads they put
on his fraternity tease and their records stamped
with stabbed freedom, torn from a country
horizon in absofuckinlutely Nowhere, Tx.
I rode on a bus once
and pretended I was in a music video. Me and Gods.
What a sweet girl. What a smart girl.
Prick my finger and see if you burn. That bus left me dragging.
Children saw my beautiful body flinging bright
red glory undiscovered. It covered their face
in Jackson Pollack portrait flashes.
Ugly crunch of white.
Yellow grass unloved, uncared for, but not from
the beginning. No, in the opening page of this
the smoke tasted different coming from one mouth
to another. The first time she heard the hurling roar
of the ocean her body froze in awe and
overwhelming shades that smelled undeserving.
Masochism minus fun.
Chase their shadow to a better block, a brighter
street that beckons in the cool paint of night – the canvas.
Cross yourself and ask the king for advice and the
priest for absolution. Damn, things light up
with crazy at an alarming rate. Everyone caging us,
stroking the antidote hope, soap that dirties me and you.
I’m telling you man – it’s cooking.