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The Library - Fiction and Poetry for the Heart


My Red is Brown
pct, March 2001

My red is brown...
Dirty, muddy, dark red-brown
Blood turned dark
A stain on the land
   to brown
       to black

She fled deep into the earth
it seemed that's where she belonged...
Seeking death, seeking oblivion...
my red
   turned brown
      leaking black
         bleeding death

I sank within it
I sleep within it
Murky, muddy, slowish ooze
   turned brown
      turning black

She wants to die,
She begs for death,
She slows her heartbeat and drums no more.
No fishes swim there,
No sweet clean fire,
No good smelling earth,
No warmish creatures to need and love.
Just decay and ooze and mire and muck.

Do not let us die, I call.
I will not leave you.
If I must, I will stay with you
   in the decay and ooze and mire.
You are my only hope!
But I am afraid.

Will she wake and hear me calling?
Will she draw me down into her darkness,
   into her frozenness?
Or will she rise from her bed of death
   and feel the beating of her own heart?
I listen, I strain, and finally I hear it.
It beats, it runs, it thrums,
   above the wind and below the river.
I feel it, even through her sleeping.
I hear the drums, beating still.
We live.
We live.
We live.

Thrust out and away the crust and cancer.
The black and death that are not ours.
Thrust out and away and
We rage.

Will this brown begin to red?
Will scarlet rivers run again through my veins?
Will the drummer drum?
She is my only hope,
   she who has no hope.

Part Two: A Shred of Red

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