• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 02
Image by

Four Red Years

Travelling, I met your man
being pumped full of drugs,
and paid. This, he told me,
as he ate an apple, exuding
health, or its red-faced cousin
at least. The punchline
sat by his side, licking
its lips.

Always a child in a room
full of adults, I blushed
when addressed through dialogue
or gesture. Red-faced
at the dining table, I studied
its white tablecloth
as a map displaying
my future, or their past.

Uncle Tom: So which
do you prefer – the country
or the city? Me: The city.
(…while a bevy of larks flew
by, circling, mocking. Red-faced
with youth, I stood in the garden
under a bluer sky, shaded,
free. Uncle Tom carried on


Four Red Years

Frozen bread for the birds
sits in the grass by the tram
stop, while we, the commuters,
are red-faced and stiffened,
fighting the cold breeze
as contorted shapes;
fighting with goodwill and bad
posture. We stand,
and we are waiting.