Red City
The wheels are burning hot,
Turning sand Into glass cities,
Swallowing tarry black petroleum
as they layer upward.
But what are those loose ends, and woven strands
here, and there?
Are those the ladders of the angels,
Trapped on their way back up?
Rosa Reid
Back to blue: The Queen Wins
The queen of hearts and her spade king,
Torn veil and leopard skin,
Splatter – a matter of mascara
When ruined, means nothing to him.
She drinks the blues and in sequined style
Refuses to dim or die
And makes a bloody mess of him.
Washing off her cheeks, lips, and chin –
She lost a sequin in laundering,
This second matter of a clutter of shiny things,
Is a simple loss.
The queen wins.
Rosa Reid
