
INTERPRETING RED BY ALICIA SOMETIMES
I'm conversing Rothko in whispers
lifting my fingers, exalted, cathedral like
coaxing my friend who knows the craft of frozen
breakfasts, pool table scuffles & lounge room
posters & reading everything
as if it were a drunk manuscript
Now, he stands before this ache of color
in fluster, blushing like the cranberry canvas
in front of him. Is this carnal? he asks
Cowlick swirls permeate his fractured question
as we crumble into the distillate reds
scorching the image with fury & dissonance
He imagines a stolen waltz, I dream
the volatile margins of a goodbye letter
We both see the beginnings of life
& then—moody particles dissipate before us
leaving the sun to fend for itself outside